Parallel Lines
by veagleeyev
Summary: Modern AU—A parallel line is a replica, but shifted over. When his adoptive father, Garrow, is murdered, Eragon finds himself shifted into a new job with people he doesn't know. [Rated M for language, violence, and adult themes. Experiments with POV.] R&R Chapters 1-9 edited.
1. 1 – Pilot

**Disclaimer:** Inspired by Flashes and The Flip of a Coin. Characters based off of Christopher Paolini's Inheritance Cycle. I don't own the things.

I will experiment with POV (more info at bottom). Please critique.

* * *

"Just tell me again. What is your relationship with Garrow Cadocson?"

"How many times do I hafta tell you?" The man before him, large in size, towered over Eragon, blowing a lock of green hair from his forehead. Eragon seriously wanted to punch him, but a comforting hand on his shoulder reprimanded him.

"My brother's told you. His mother, Selena, left him on our doorstep; we don't know his father, and he's been with us ever since. We don't know who would do this to Garrow, and my girlfriend, Katrina, can confirm that we weren't home tonight."

Eragon looked up at Roran's face, silently thanking him. His brother smiled, but his eyes showed nothing.

He understood his pain. It'd hurt so much that all emotion had drained from him. He wondered if he would ever feel again, but given the current state, he didn't really care.

"Fírnen," someone said. "You got anything?"

"Well, they have an alibi we need to confirm, and like usual, they don't have any motives for anyone. You?"

The voice's owner stepped forward, and Eragon lowered his mandible. Upon beholding the woman in front of him, he stopped breathing. He wondered if she were even human. She seemed graceful enough to be an elf right out of Tolkien's Middle Earth.

Her hair was darker than a polluted night sky, and her irises shone green enough to be Christmas lights. She wore v-neck suit that revealed the bony lumps at the bottom of her neck, and her leggings clung to her skin.

"It fits the Ra'zac's MO."

"Whose?" Roran demanded. Eragon barely processed it, so deeply did he lust over the alien beauty. Of course, when Roran backhanded him, he returned from his trance.

"I am not at liberty to say. I think I will go before your brother's drooling floods the house."

Eragon tapped the floor with the tip of his right foot, his head hanging, ears burning.

"'Scuse me, Mister Fírnen?"

"Yes?"

"If you can tell me anything about why my father was murdered, I need to know."

Eragon sniffled at the mention of Garrow, and he rubbed his irritated nose.

"It's'n ongoing investigation. We really can't tell you."

"I understand," Roran said. Eragon, however, glowered at the man.

'Fírnen' handed Eragon a card with contact information. "My condolences. Soon as I can tell you anything, I will."

"Fírnen, we need to go! And stop being so damn _soft_!"

"Coming, _Lady Arya_ ," he jeered, rolling his eyes.

' _Arya_ ,' Eragon mouthed, deciding the name fit on his lips. Much like the angel's appearance, it contained a mirth of beauty.

"C'mon, Eragon. Katrina said we could stay at her place for the night. Her dad won't be home until t'morrow."

They pushed through the crowd of police, opened and slammed the front door, and ducked under the yellow tape. They saw Katrina and her grey sedan parked across Farmland Way, frowning with her arms crossed.

Roran jogged towards her, slowing only as his body collided with hers in an embrace. Eragon heard gasps, and he realized Roran was sobbing. It shocked Eragon; Roran was the big brother, the strong one. He'd always comforted him. His guilt spiked when he realized he didn't know how to return the favor.

The rising pressure in his chest told him to release his tears, and he tried, but he couldn't. Instead, he trudged to the car door. He yanked the handle, his palms chilled by the metal.

He felt Roran's palm ruffle the top of his head, and two loose hairs drifted in front of his face, which he blew forward. He hoisted himself onto the black leather seats and reached for the seatbelt on his left, finding nothing.

Eragon realized that in Katrina's car, unlike Garrow's station wagon, the seatbelts hung on the right. He felt the strap and slid his hand down towards the end. Grabbing the buckle, he fumbled around to find the clip. It clicked twice and locked into place.

The driver's and passenger's car doors shut in tandem, and Katrina guided the keys into the ignition, twisting them clockwise. The car hummed, and she released them to find Roran's hand, grabbing it above the cup holders.

"When we get there," Katrina warned, "you'll hafta leave early in the morning b'fore my dad comes home from work."

Eragon grunted. He knew Sloan's temper, and if he caught them, he'd beat Katrina when they left. If they mentioned Garrow's death, he would yell at them for 'spoiling the moment.'

He noticed the worry projected from Roran's eyes, but neither of them voiced the reason. Roran had begged Katrina many times before to abandon Sloan, but she wouldn't. Eragon had suggested calling someone anyway, but Roran had rejected the idea instantly. _"She only has two more years till she's eighteen,"_ he'd said.

As Katrina drove, the only sounds were of the worn road jostling the car.

* * *

 **POV Types:**

 **Omniscent** : From a godlike, all-knowing third party perspective. Kinda like a map view.

 **POF** : Point of focus. Third-person scope. This can be done on an object, not just a character. The purpose of an object focus would be for imagery.

 **Dual Focus** : POF on two people.

 **All** : This is insane to write. Even extras get to be a point of focus. It's an invasive and shifting POF. I like to think of it as a virus that uses one person at a time.

 **Outside Spec** : Spectated from the characters' surrounders. We see them from the extras' eyes.

 **POV** : I will not use this. It's first person. Essentially, you're inside a chosen character's head.

 **Note:** I will rarely, if ever, label a POV swap. I need feedback regarding my transitions, because my skills in writing them are lacking.

 **Disclaimer:** Omniscient POV's are the only one that I listed which has that official name.

Like it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews below!


	2. 2 – Breakdown

Let me know how clear it is regarding whom I focus on. And vote on the poll on my profile. A new POV type, Dual Focus, is introduced at the beginning.

* * *

Roran and Eragon watched Katrina wave from the front door, the former with longing, and the latter with a squint under the dim streetlights.

When Katrina shut the door, Eragon's iPhone 4S rang. Neither of the brothers knew who'd be calling them at four in the morning.

"Hello? Yeah – Yes, he's here too. Lemme put you on speaker-phone."

"Roran!"

"Brom?"

Eragon nodded, and the older brother tilted his head. "What the hell're you doing, calling my little brother at four?"

The younger sibling glared at the protective nature of his brother, but Roran shrugged.

"Well," Brom said, his breath scratching the mic, "I figured you two weren't gonna be sleepin', and I was right in guessin' you were gonna be t'gether."

The boys sighed, and Eragon snapped before Roran. "So you just call us anyway? Our dad just died, but us being awake is an excuse?"

"Not at all! I'm just wonderin' if ya needed a place ta stay."

The looked at each other, asking permission with their expressions.

" _Yes please_ ," they both replied.

"Great! Now, where're ya?"

"Y'know Katrina?" asked Roran.

"Yeah! Sweet girl, she is. Her dad, not really. Not since 'is wife got jumped by that gang. Urgals, did 'ey call 'emselves? I remember when she was jus' a li'l girl. She'd—"

"Brom, before you start telling another one of your stories," Eragon blurted, "can you pick us up at her house?"

"And quickly too," Roran added.

"Course! I'll be there quicker'n a . . .Well, I'll be there soon, 'kay?"

They mumbled their thanks, and Eragon rolled his eyes while Roran scoffed.

"He's a nutcase, that old man," grumbled Eragon.

"You should be more grateful."

"Oh, don't gimme that! You think it too!"

They chuckled, knowing Eragon was right, but stopped when they remembered the night's events. It felt wrong to laugh when their father had just been murdered.

An aged VW Beetle, paint mostly peeled off and eroded by rust, skidded around a corner, wiggled to straighten its path and rubbed a burner into the already-chipping street. The brakes groaned when used, and the car flinched.

"See? There's no way he's sane!"

Roran approached the passenger side, but Eragon slid in front of him, shouting, "Shotgun!"

"Whatever." To Eragon's amusement and Roran's annoyance, the younger of the two seated himself in the back. The chairs had chunks of fabric missing, and yellow foam protruded from the holes. As Brom blurred the surroundings with the vehicle's speed, seatbelts rattled; the car leaned back, and everything trembled. A scraping sound rose behind the car, followed by a constant squeak.

"What is that?" Eragon demanded.

Brom chortled as if he'd listened to a comedian. "Oh, it's just that damned bumper again. Keeps comin' loose."

 _God,_ Roran prayed, _please don't kill us yet._

Eragon, however, wanted to throw his arms up and cheer. It felt like the roller coasters he'd ridden as a kid, and Roran had always refused to go on them.

Roran unknowingly explained his reasons by vomitting on the back of Eragon's chair.

"Not again!" Both boys raised their eyebrows.

"Does this happen often?" Roran croaked.

"Those stains don't make 'emselves!"

They both gagged, but Roran accompanied the expression with more vomit.

A siren howled, and Brom yanked the car to the side of the road. A police sedan passed them and reversed, parking in front of the bug. Eragon choked on spit when he saw the officer, and Roran stifled a guffaw when he recognized Arya. Eragon attempted to yell at the older one, but his vocal chords wouldn't move.

Brom leaned out the empty window, which the boys assumed had fallen out.

"Sir, are you aware you were going ninety miles an hour without a license plate?"

"Guess it must've fallen off," the old man mused.

"Wait a minute . . . Brom?"

"Do I know ya?"

"Brom?" Fírnen sprinted to Arya's side. "Holy hell! It's really him!"

"And you are…?"

"Officer Fírnen," he chirped, shaking his hand eagerly. "I was just a uni when you were working."

Roran looked at Eragon, mouthing, ' _What_?'

The addressee just shrugged.

"License and registration please," Arya recited.

"Arya, do we really—"

"'Salright, sir. Here ya go."

Fírnen beamed at having been addressed with respect, but Arya shoved him aside, handing the identification back to Brom with a ticket.

"Fíren, would you stop worshipping your idol and get in the car? His passengers have been through enough already."

"P-Passengers?"

They saw him blush, and Eragon flushed as well, astounded that Arya had recognized him. Roran's face paled and greened in worry of more motion sickness.

Brom shifted the car from park, but it wheezed, exhaust pluming from the pipes. The engine wailed, and though an inanimate object, it died. "Stupid ancient technology."

Fíren sprinted back to the window, not pausing between words. "Doyaneedaride?"

"No! Fírnen, I'm the liaison! We have to report back to Chief Ajihad!"

Brom, ignoring the woman, answered, "Sure! Jus' take the Spine ta get t' the outskirts a Carvahall."

Roran coughed, surprised. "Brom! That's a pretty sketchy area."

"Oh, it'll be fine. Yer brother goes there all the time, doncha, Eragon?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Great!" Brom chirped, exiting the broken-down car.

Roran's heart stretched in anxiety, but Eragon's almost snapped.

"He does realize he's going in a cop car, right?"

"Like you said – he's bat-shit crazy."

XXX

While she didn't express it, she was thoroughly pissed. Fírnen was acting younger than the kid in the car, and while the civilian appeared around eighteen, the officer acted like he was twelve. The brother was older and should have moved out before Garrow's death. But in further misfortune, the former FBI agent, Brom, who had been discharged after a psych evaluation had proven the loss of his partner drove him insane, was with them.

 _Worse just became worst,_ she decided.

She wanted Fíren to stop gawking over a deranged old man, and she wanted the immature brat to hit on her so she could shun him. That way he'd at least hide his drooling better.

Additionally, they were in an area of town where she wouldn't attend on her lunch break, much less a quarter after four.

A pale young man stumbled towards the car, grabbing the trunk of a red Toyata Prius to keep upright in the left turn lane. The traffic light flicked to green, and she jammed her foot into the brake, releasing pressure when they exited the intersection.

"Arya," teased Fírnen, "did you just get scared?"

"Fírnen, did you just forget to shut your mouth?" In response, her partner gazed down at his lap where his twiddling thumbs rested. She felt guilty for snapping, but she instantly denied the emotion. In truth, she hadn't been angry at Fírnen, but more at herself for reacting the way she had, for it meant he was right. She had felt something, and she could not let it happen again.

A line of people wearing hoodies, hats and ripped jeans marched out from an alley to block the road. They whirled ninety degrees to face the vehicle, identities obscured by ski masks, except for the especially large silhouette in the center, who wore a bird mask.

 _Scratch that._ Now _it's come to worst,_ Arya corrected.

"Fírnen?"

"Okay, Arya, look. I'm sorry about—"

"Look in front of you."

The birdman raised his right hand, and the thugs behind him reached for various pockets and pouches. A few seconds later, he closed his talon-like fist, and guns were drawn, and the clicking testified to disabled safeties and cocking guns.

"Get down!" Arya shouted.

As the assailants spammed gunfire, bullets sparked against the car; glass shattered, burrowing into skin, and sulfur contaminated the air with the smell of rotten eggs.

Arya unholstered her pistol, jammed a clip into the bottom of the handle, leveled it onto the dash, released the safety and fired randomly. She glanced at Fírnen, who clutched his inner left bicep. Blood, flashing from gray to brownish-red upon the flashes of gunfire, trickled down the seat.

"Been hit."

"Crap!" she hissed, slamming the button to enable the police radio. The speakers just produced static.

"Bastards musta hit the antenna!" Brom spat.

"Kid," Arya whispered. "Can you call nine-one-one?"

"Phone's dead, and my brother doesn't have one."

She sighed. "Brom?"

"I'm too broke, but thanks fer remindin' me a my lost salary. Y'know. 'Cause I jus' needed the FBI ta rub—"

"Who is in the middle?" Arya interjected.

"I am," breathed the kid. She winced at what she was about to ask him. He'd been studying for the entire time, and she hated leading him on.

"I need you to grab the radio in the back of my belt."

"Whuh? Are – I – Er . . . Are you sure?"

"Do you honestly think that I would be making jokes right now? His—" she pointed her head at Fírnen "—communications are shorted by blood, and I need to return fire. I need both hands to control the recoil in this position."

"R-right. Sorry." The boy hesitated, slowly sliding the walkie-talkie up to avoid touching her.

"Really?" Fírnen derogated. "We're being fucking shot at! It ain't exactly the time for curtesy."

Eragon yanked the radio from the belt loop, but Arya blocked any discomfort from her mind. Emotions were for the weak, and right now she needed to be strong.

"Good," Arya encouraged. "See that switch on the side? Flip it to turn on the device, and hold down the button on the other side when you talk."

He complied, and a crackling voice demanded, "Who's this? We don't have anyone in your area."

"Well, these guys I think are FBI."

"FBI? They don't get police radios!"

"Well obviously they do, because they have them!"

"Seriously?" This guy was clueless, and if they weren't being shot at, she'd have slapped him. "Jus' tell 'im the situation!"

"Right. Well, we're in the Spine, and some dudes're shootin' at us."

"Where are you?"

"I just told you! The Spine!"

"For goodness' sakes, Eragon!" Brom yanked the device from his hands. "We're on Broddring 'n Tyranny. Several masked men've pinned us down. We need backup immediately! 'N agent has been shot!"

"Reinforcements en route."

Fírnen grimaced. "Y'know, Brom, we have codes that're much easier to say."

"Oh yeah, because they obviously haven't changed in the _twenny years I been off the force!_ "

"Hey, Miss..." The voice was deeper than the younger boy, and despite the stressful predicament, it lacked the quavering too.

"Dröttning."

"Right, well, Eragon here knows a lot about, well, a lot. He might be able to help your friend."

"No."

"I can help," Eragon insisted.

Arya filled her lungs but strained her diaphragm to withhold any exhalation. Then, she realeased it, bellowing, "I am not going to let some kid – whom I hardly know – touch my bleeding partner!"

"I'm not a kid! I'm eighteen!"

"No, you are not a _minor_ , but you have not grown up yet!"

"Arya," Fírnen groaned. "Just pull the switch to lower my seat and let 'im help."

"You could lose your arm, y'know." Her partner ground his bottom jaw against his upper teeth.

"It'll hurt a helluva lot less, then."

She pushed a button, and his seat slid back, tilting very closely to Brom, who pressed into his chair. As she reloaded her gun, she heard a zip behind her.

"Eragon, why're you taking off your jacket?" Roran inquired.

"Gotta wipe up the blood, and then I'll hafta tie it around the wound."

"Ow!"

"Sorry, but I doubt any of us have alcohol, so it's not gonna be numb and'll probably get infected."

"Actually…" muttered Brom. A popping noise sounded from an released cork, and a liquid sloshed. "Nineteen-som-mn-er-other. I was savin' it fer a special occasion. Ain't what I had in mind, but I guess this counts."

"This is probably a terrible idea, but it'll at least kill some bacteria. Anyone got another jacket?"

Another passenger unzipped theirs, and Arya heard two more sloshes. Fírnen screamed over the gunshots.

"Now, I don't really know exactly, but I'm pretty sure there's a nerve around where you got shot, so I hope you're right-handed. It also means you're gonna be in a crap-tonna pain."

Arya felt another emotion: rage. She rammed the trigger until it cut into her finger. She reloaded and swapped hands. Nerves didn't regrow, and damage to them could end Fírnen's career.

Sirens approached. Their wailing intensified. The drifting of cars shrieked, and the violence halved before ceasing. Arya pulled the door handle to her left. When she pushed it forward, it flew into the ground. Any remaining glass of the window shattered.

Eragon and his brother stepped out, whereas Bron slid from under the chair. Two paramedics attended to Fírnen, but she let them wheel him off, knowing she'd just hinder them anyway. Instead, she approached the officer with a notepad that spoke to Brom. She recounted the night's events, forbidding the luxury to feel, keeping her tone neutral. When she finished, the officer left.

"Why didn't a see 'im?" Brom interrogated.

"It was not my place."

"You're 'is partner. Don't ya care?"

"I do not really care about much of anything anymore."

"Nonesense."

She tired of the pressing queries. "No, it is not. Caring is for the weak."

"Ev'rybody cares about somethin'. It's unhealthy to avoid it."

"Oh? Because caring was so healthy for you?" She stormed to the nearest vehicle to get a ride home, ignorant of the effect her words had had on Brom.

* * *

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	3. 3 – Informal Interview

Poll?

* * *

It had been a week since Fírnen's injury, and since the agent's phone had shorted from all the blood, Eragon had to call the man's work phone to leave a message. However, every time he called, Arya picked up. She always seemed annoyed that it was him. Whenever he asked about Fírnen, she'd tell him the encounter was under investigation. She wouldn't even mention which hospital Fírnen attended.

This time, to both Eragon's relief and disappointment, Fírnen picked up the phone.

"Eragon, hey! Howya been?"

"Crappy. You?"

"Eh . . . Bullet hit a nerve, so I lost my job. Oh, and half the use'f my left arm."

"Oh..." Eragon felt triumphant that he'd been right, which made him feel guilty about Fíren's loss.

"'S all good. Chief Ajihad hired me, so I'm still Arya's unofficial partner."

"C _oo_ l," he said, his voice cracking at the mention of the liaison.

"Yeah. Apparently I woulda bled out if it weren't for you, so thanks."

Eragon felt . . . He didn't even know how he felt; he hadn't experienced this emotion before. Accomplished? Yeah, that seemed right. "I'm glad."

"A lotta people were. Ajihad was especially interested in meeting you. Asked me if I knew where you were staying . . . I think he intends to visit."

"What did you tell him?"

"Why, Brom's place of course! Oh, sorry, I gotta go. Thanks again!"

Before he could reply, a slow, toneless beep emanated from the speaker. The doorbell dinged, and the neighbor's dog barked, causing the entire neighborhood to erupt in a frenzy.

"Every damn time," he muttered. He swung the door open and was greeted by a bald, black man whose face housed a closely trimmed beard. The man's attire consisted of a suit.

"Eragon?"

"Uh, that's me. You are...?"

"Ajihad. May I come in?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah." He blinked. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Um . . . Just – take a seat on the couch, I guess." Eragon twisted himself to allow the muscular man through.

He sat on a springy futon across from an old television which predated high definition.

"Would you like something to drink, or...?"

"No, thank you. I'd like to thank you for saving a certain man's life."

"Oh. Um, you're welcome, I guess."

"I'd also like to invite you to the force."

Eragon's mandible fully unhinged.

Ajihad smiled, his brown eyes shining. "Of course, if you don't want to, that's okay as well."

"No! No, um . . . I'd love to."

"I figured," he said, standing and marching out the door. "You coming?"

"Oh! Right now?"

"Well, if you're busy..."

"Not at all! I just thought there'd be more to it."

"If you can regularly pass through the Spine unscathed, you can already handle a gun. I'll have you tag along with Arya and Fírnen. They'll show you the ropes."

XXX

"What do you mean, 'Eragon's coming?' He's just a kid; he'll slow me down!"

Fírnen glared at her. "Well, he happened to save my life, and if it's really all about you, what the hell's this partnership about?"

"Whatever. He stays in the car, though."

Fírnen grinned. "Do you want me to feed and walk him, too?"

She shook her head, grabbed her jacket and marched out the door, her boots tapping on the polished quartz tile. She held the heavy doors open for Fírnen, whose left arm was fixed in a navy-blue sling

Outside, Eragon studied her. She breezed past the boy, entering the driver's seat without acknowledging him. Fírnen patted his shoulder, sauntered to shotgun and beckoned to him.

"So..." Eragon began, making Arya cringe. "Where're we going?"

"Checking out a lead on a murder case," her partner explained.

"Neat. Who died?"

Arya, neglecting to tell him it was Garrow, said, "It is best not to humanize the victim. You do not want to feel needless pain."

Fírnen snorted. "Spoken by a true sociopath."

She woke the car, urging it forward. She frowned. She preferred bikes; she was a rider. She pulled out of the parking lot and waited for an oppurtunity to exit. Finally, she darted past a SMART car.

Eragon's posture straightened in the rear-view mirror. "Drives like one too."

She half-shrugged, cutting off an old couple in a Ford Fusion.

"It's kinda like when you have your lights on," commented Fírnen. "'Cept that she doesn't."

The light flicked to green, and she cut the corner, speeding up to catch the yellow straight ahead. Going ten miles over the speed limit, she casually parallel parked between a trashcan and a white Honda Odyssey.

They crossed a driveway, walking around the lush lawn, and paced down to and through the porch that was shaded by an overhang. She knocked on the polished mahogany door, which creaked as it opened partially inwards.

"Selena Cadocson?"

The woman pointed the double-barrel of a shotgun at them, and Fírnen drew his sidearm. Arya put her hands up, badge displayed in her right palm.

"How the hell did you find me?"

"FBI. We just wanna ask you some questions," Fírnen said/

"Mom?"

She glanced back at Eragon. _Crap_ , she thought.

"Murtagh?"

"Murtagh? Who's that?"

"Eragon! You look so much like your father!"

"I hate to break up the reunion," Fírnen interjected, "but if you could put the shotgun down and let us in, it'd be nice."

"Right, sorry." Selena shut the door, and five minutes of clicks and taps indicated the presence of dozens of locks. The door opened all the way, and rolled her wrist to beckon them.

XXX

"Where were you all my life?" Eragon blurted.

"Eragon," Arya scolded. "Now is not the time for this."

"Your questions can wait. Mine've waited eighteen years."

"Arya, just let him. This is hard for him." Eragon looked at Fírnen in appreciation. Guilt prodded him for delaying the investigation, but in this case, he felt he had the right to be selfish.

"Well, it started about twenty-four years ago – when I met your father. I was currently living with a crimelord for husband, and my son, Murtagh, was taken by CPS when his dad threw a knife into his back. I was too loyal to Morzan – that'd be my dear hubby – to see past his charms."

Eragon had hoped his mother was a caring person, but now he heard tales of atrocities under a drug lord who had sired him. The disappointment matched the emptiness on the night of Garrow's murder. "Then I met your father."

Eragon looked up, hopeful. "Who?"

"I'll get to that. Your father was an undercover agent for the US government. I'd come to resent the abuse of Murtagh and myself, so he recruited me as an informant. Eventually, we got closer, and in time, we'd fallen in love. I became pregnant with you, but then Morzan found out. Your father got me out of there, and I put you in Garrow's care before entering the Witness Protection Program. I always regret leaving you and your father behind, but most of all faking my death. It must've broken him…"

His mother began to sob, and he sat up from the chair he was in to wrap his arms around her on the sofa in comfort. "Mom, who was Dad?"

"His name was Brom."

Eragon's arms dropped.

"Something wrong?"

"I know him."

"Really? Is he well? Did he move on?"

"He's fine," he lied. He decided it would hurt his mother to tell her that Brom was clinically insane.

"Miss Cadocson," Fírnen cooed, "Brom absolutely refused to find anyone else in his life, and now I understand why."

Arya, likely tired of all the drama, broke the topic. "I am sorry to inform you, Miss Cadocson, but your brother Garrow was murdered."

He hugged his mother and felt her gasps under her embrace.

"It's all my fault…"

"How so?" Arya pressed.

"After Morzan died, Galbitorix musta sent the Ra'zac after him. The Ra'zac were twin men who wore bird masks – his pet assassins. They liked to burn their enemies. Rumor had it that the ate 'em, too."

"This is turning into a RICO case," Fírnen announced.

"Wait, Arya, wasn't that man with the gang wearing a bird mask?"

She nodded.

"Mom, there's a gang in the drug trade called the Urgals. Ring a bell?"

"No, but Galbatorix said he was forging some connections. It was twenty years ago, of course, but still."

"Arya, Fírnen, I believe we just found ourselves a huge bust on a major crime syndicate."

* * *

Shoutout to darkdruid01, who has the most fun narrative voice on the planet. Check out Fate Unleashed!

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	4. 4 – Making Friends

Poll? Also, make sure to give me that feedback regarding transitions.

* * *

"Ajihad, why're we here? And for God's sake, why am I not learning to be an actual cop?"

The tone of disrespect impressed Eragon; Ajihad was not a weak-looking man. The girl who used it was taller than himself and about as buff as Fírnen, albeit slightly more lean. Her eyes, much like her hair, matched the sky.

"Saphira, all will be explained when the rest of everybody gets here."

"Sir, what is it you wanted?" Arya addressed. "Wait, what is _he_ doing here?"

Eragon whirled around towards Arya and Fírnen, noting the latter's expression. Fíren gawked at Saphira, face red, his freckles and green hair making him look like a strawberry. Saphira's grin shone in amusement.

Brom strode in, and the guilt eroded Eragon's confidentiality. He desperately desired to tell Brom he was his son, but he couldn't reveal his mother's existence nor disclose information from an ongoing investigation. "Well, you guys should take a seat 'ntil Murtagh 'n Thorn show up."

"Wait," questioned Fírnen, not looking from Saphira. "We're trusting _them_ with a meeting?"

"Hm. You don't even know me," Saphira remarked, "and yet don't trust your own co-workers?"

"Well…" He shifted, and Saphira giggled. Eragon grinned at the two of them.

"I'm glad you two're so fond of us," grunted a man about four years Eragon's superior. His hair was black, and his eyes, gray. A young adult around Eragon's age, hair died red, strolled behind the shorter newcomer. The backmost of the pair towered at a head lower below Saphira, but was no shorter than Fírnen. He seemed scrawny to Eragon, but noticed the tone of his biceps underneath the maroon t-shirt.

"You must be Murtagh," Eragon guessed, curious about his supposed half-brother. Murtagh nodded. "And I take it he's Thorn?"

"A damn thorn in my side."

"Hey!"

"I'm just kiddin', man. Glad to have you along." Murtagh ruffled Thorn's hair.

"Sir, why are we here?" Arya demanded again.

"Well, you're not _officially_ here. We're forming a secret anti-drug unit. We're gonna call it the Varden. The name doesn't mean anything, but it sounds badass."

"You plan to have a deranged old man, a rookie, a sociopath, a cute kid with nerve damage, a pair nobody trusts and me on a crucial job? I mean, admittedly I _am_ amazing, but still."

Fírnen grinned foolishly, no doubt at having been called cute.

Brom coughed. At first it resembled falsehood, but it evolved into a short fit of hacks. "Actually, it was my idea."

" _Not helpful_ ," Murtagh choked.

"Ajihad, if ya'd let me, I'd like t'explain."

"Permission granted."

"Well, you all know of Galbatorix, right? We're gonna get the sonuvabitch who killed my wife." The guilt Eragon wore stacked surplus layers. "We know he's allied with the Urgals, and Eragon's experience with the Spine c'n get us around. Murtagh 'n Thorn, your skills as ex-CIA'll be invaluable for intel."

"Where does she fit in?" inquired Fírnen. Eragon waddled about himself fourty degrees to find the finger that focused Saphira.

"Eragon, though not on payroll—" Ajihad stopped him with a flat Palm of vertical slope before he could protest "—needs a partner. Saphira here is a high school dropout that I can't officially pay either."

"Now, that's not to say I'm an idiot; I'm probably smarter than half of you here," Saphira beamed.

"Prettier, too," Fírnen breathed. Arya rolled her eyes, and Eragon chuckled.

Murtagh tapped his foot, arms crossed. "Great, so we have a bad team that doesn't trust each other and two untrained recruits. Now that we're unprepared and ill-equipped, let's go and take out the world's biggest drug empire!"

"Not right away! Brom's gonna train you! He may be a bit . . . out of it, but he was the best damn officer we ever had. Now go meet up in the basement! I changed the lock, and only Brom has the key."

Eragon and Ajihad observed how Saphira and Fírnen ambled while the rest of the team grumbled and slouched out. When the room cleared, Eragon faced Ajihad.

"Uh, sir, can we speak somewhere private?"

"The door behind me leads to a restroom. Come."

The door swept the dirt off the cracked tile, the awoken hinges cringing. Ajihad flipped a switch, and after two seconds, a light flickered, dimmed, then brightened, buzzing like an insect.

"Now, what was it you wanted, Eragon?"

"Well, sir, I—" The man held out his hand.

"Please, Eragon. Call me Ajihad. It is my name, after all."

Eragon stuttered at the informality. "R-right. Well, th-there's someone." He filled his lungs then drained them completely. "There's someone I wanna add to the team, but we need to get her out."

"Eragon, the government is funding this unit, and they will _not_ want another person to pay for."

"Ajihad, she's a kid stuck in prostitution. She can read people better than a trained psychoanalyst."

"Why not keep her as an informant?"

Eragon tried not to growl in disgust. "She's a kid! Can you honestly, in good faith, leave her in a hellhole?"

"No, but the government won't accept a child prostitute in open arms, and informing's gonna lessen any sentences."

"It's not like she has a choice!"

"She's a sex slave for a Mexican gang. Do you honestly think they won't deport her?"

"She might not even be illegal!"

"Eragon, calm down."

His fingernails dug into his skin, and his teeth rubbed.

"Trouble or no, I'm getting her out."

"Don't be a fool!"

"I'd rather have a fool's wisdom than a broken conscience." He stormed out the restroom and office.

XXX

Eragon slammed the door shut, and everybody looked at him – except for Fírnen and Saphira; the two of them focused on flirting as if it were a target through a scope. Thorn shrugged; Arya tilted her head, and Murtagh raised an eyebrow. Brom approached the boy.

Those who noticed stared in curiousity, but only Brom cared for the person behind the outburst.

"What's pissed him off so much?" Thorn whispered to Murtagh, his hand cupped over his mouth next to his partner's ear.

"Hell if I knew," Murtagh replied.

"Eragon, preten' nobody else's here," Brom soothed. "Then again, that'd leave us alone in a basement, so pretend someone ya trust's here."

Despite his mood, Eragon's lip twitched. Then his enraged expression returned.

Saphira, finally noticing something besides Fírnen's flexing muscles, tapped the green-haired man on the left shoulder, apologized after he cursed in pain, and pointed to Eragon and Brom.

"It would seem," Eragon mumbled in a tone that he'd incorrectly assumed only Brom would hear, "that the government would leave child in prostitution to save a nickel. Ajihad told me not to be an idiot, but I just can't sit by."

Arya blinked at the audacity. Who could be so cruel to a child?

"Eragon," Brom sighed, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I useta be a lot like you. There was a time where I 'idn't think I could sit back and wait, 'n I got the woman I loved killed with my partner."

Only Fírnen, Arya and Murtagh would have known of the incident which the man referred to, but Murtagh wouldn't have been able to admit it, as it had involved the CIA.

While everybody but Arya and Brom strained to hear the conversation, Eragon silently thanked the God that Garrow had told him of for the (unknowingly false) sense of security he possessed.

Fírnen and Saphira started towards Eragon, but Brom shook his head. "It's time ta get started!" he announced, his tone conveying nothing of the recently passed events.

"You're gonna enjoy my amazingness," Saphira boasted to Fírnen, making his ears redden in thought of analyzing her body.

Murtagh grumbled, contrasting with Thorn, who rubbed his hands together. Eragon slumped against a wall in the corner, and Arya approached him.

"I do _not_ want to talk," he hissed at the footsteps, not looking up from the floor.

"You do not have to," Arya's voice chilled. "I already heard."

Eragon panicked. If anyone would reprimand his behavior, it'd be Arya.

"This girl. You plan on freeing her, yes?"

"You can't stop me!" He'd shouted a little louder than he'd intended, and the entire room peered at him until Fírnen broke the attention with the fact that Saphira messed up when she'd relocated her attention.

Arya crossed her arms. "I was not planning on it. Like you, I cannot be the bystander when a child's life is endangered."

Eragon rose to study her deeply green eyes for emotion. He found none, but couldn't focus on anything else. Arya had to feel something about this, he reasoned, but she managed to conceal her motives. "Fine. Meet me tomorrow at the Seven Sheaves. I know the owner, and he can give us a private spot to talk." He pushed past Arya, tensing as he bumped her shoulder, and lined up behind the rest of the team for physical testing.

XXX

The group (excluding Arya) laughed as Fírnen landed on his hurt arm after Saphira had taunted him. Brom lifted a pen to mark the box under the fail category for flips, but Fírnen, humiliated, sweaty and prideful, deafened himself, sprung and flipped successfully.

"Ah, so he does have some moves," Saphira teased. Eragon smirked at his new partner, who simpered back. Arya rolled her eyes; Murtagh drummed his thighs with his fingers; Thorn respectfully clapped, and Brom marked the box beside the word "pass".

"Okay, Fírnen," Brom said, "I think ya might wanna take a break ta ice your arm."

' _Thanks_ ,' he mouthed, not wanting to audibly admit his pain in front of Saphira.

"Excuse me, Brom—"

"That's _sir_ ta you, Murtagh!"

"I'd like to grab a heater from my office, sir."

"Why doncha just go take a week of paid vacation while you're at it? Hell, see all my time and work? Why doncha just take alla that as well? And you can even drink on the job! No! Son, there'll be times ya need ta run shirtless in the Third World, so I think you'll be able ta live without luxury for'n hour."

"But it's a fuckin' _freezer_ in here!"

Everyone regarded Murtagh with shocked expressions, except for Arya and Brom, whose eyes shamed like a child.

"Sorry. It's a fucking freezer in here, _sir_."

Saphira's newfound respect for Murtagh contrasted Arya's reaction. Eragon sniggered at his brother's bluntness (and at the unsaid "ooh"s and "you're in trouble"s). Thorn's face telecommunicated, ' _You're screwed, mate_.'

"If ya think yerself superior, perhaps you'd like ta prove it with fists?" Brom's statement alarmed the rest of the room's occupants.

"Uh, no, sir. I—"

"Afraid a hurting the old bastard, eh? C'mon, it'll warm you up! I insist."

"Really, it's—"

"Dammit boy! Stop questionin' yer superiors!"

Eragon blew saliva from a poorly stifled giggle. Arya backhanded his arm.

"Twenty bucks says Murtagh wins," Saphira whispered to Fírnen.

"Fifty says Brom does."

"Fifty? But Murtagh's ex-CIA!"

"And Brom's Brom."

"I'm betting thirty on Murtagh," Thorn wagered.

"Any other bets?" Brom asked. "Arya?"

"I refuse to indulge in such foolish behavior."

All but Brom and Arya rolled their eyes. Instead, Brom smiled as if to acknowledge an uncalled bluff.

"Very well," Brom said. "Eragon?"

"I need to save my money for the phone bill."

"Chicken," Saphira accused.

"Oh, _fine_ ," Eragon caved. He slipped a brown wallet from his back pocket; withdrew a crumpled dollar bill, two pennies and a dime; and returned the rest to its pouch. "It's about all I got. I'll bet Brom that kicks Murtagh's ass."

Arya shook her head when Thorn shoved Murtagh towards Brom. Both adopted a defensive stance, but neither moved afterwards.

"One'f us is gonna hafta move event'ally," Brom remarked.

Brom jerked forwards and charged his elbow towards Murtagh's gut. Murtagh sidestepped the oncoming blow and struck where he thought Brom would be, but the old man had withdrawn. The younger agent stumbled.

"Murtagh," Thorn groaned. "You're better than that!"

Saphira sneered. "You're making Brom look as good as I am! How did you ever hunt your targets?"

"What is point of this, again?" Arya questioned.

"If I had to guess…" Eragin mused. "I read an article that said some cultures fight for the lead. It seems like Brom is asserting his position."

" _Nerd_ ," Thorn coughed. "Sorry, allergies."

"Eragon, that was a rhetorical question," Arya patronized. "And Thorn, we are inside a room that Ajihad just had cleaned. What allergies?"

"Seriously?" Fírnen derogated.

"What? I do not see why he would have allergies…"

Everybody, save for Arya, Brom and Murtagh, snickered.

Saphira refocused to the brawl and noticed Brom propping Murtagh's limp figure against a wall. "He lost? What a dick!"

"I told you!" exclaimed an overly triumphant Fírnen.

"He's a frickin' secret agent, but he can't even beat a retired cop? I have a horrible partner!"

"Don't be too disappointed," Eragon consoled. "This is Brom we're talking about."

Thorn laughed, and when Eragon's ears pinked, the room realized he'd been serious.

"I guess you're not the only one with a clueless partner," Saphira noted to Fírnen subaudibly* to the room's chatter.

"Yeah. Guess not."

* * *

*Subaudible (sub-AH-dih-bull) _adj_.: Below or nearly below what can be heard; quiet. From _sub_ \- (below) + _audible_. Not a real word.

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	5. 5 – Faith in Trust

Poll? On another note, I have an object POF. I need feedback.

* * *

"Eragon, man, hey! Howya been?" greeted Morn, a large, round man.

"Great. How—"

"Damn, man? Is that a girl? Never thought you'd getcherself one a those!"

"Oh, no. It's not like that. She's just a co-worker."

"A job too? They grow up so fast!" He faked three sniffles, and the drunk patron to his left guffawed like a gorilla.

"No, Morn, you're getting the wrong—"

"—What Eragon _means_ to say," Arya interrupted, "is that we need a private place to talk."

" _Awwwh_. Well, I think I got jus' the place."

Blood carried the heat Eragon's body towards his skin as the boy followed Arya and Morn to a door on the right of the counter.

Morn unhooked a jingling bundle from his lanyard, selecting one of three golden keys on the ring.

"No, that don't work." He tried two more, but neither of them fit into the lock. "Oh, right! It's one a them silver ones!" The first silver key he used rotated counterclockwise, and he turned it back after the handle clicked, yanking it out of the keyhole.

Arya pulled a stammering and trembling Eragon by the hand when Morn winked and told them not to stay up too late. She led him down a hallway. Past the splintering wooden door at the end were quarters with a queen-sized bed. The door itself had a brown handle and half-peeled patches of paint. A fancy metal decoration hung at eyelevel, curving and twisting inside a frame. The dusty fuzzers in the air brushed the sides of her throat. Arya coughed as her right eyebrow pushed up her forehead.

"S-sorry 'bout all that," Eragon apologized with a sheepish grin. His elbow above his shoulder, he positioned his band to scratch his upper back. He sincerely hoped Arya hadn't felt the sweat pouring from his hands.

"Where is this girl?"

Eragon paused. "Today's Sunday, right?"

She nodded, annoyed at the fact he couldn't tell what day it was.

"She's probably down at the whorehouse."

Arya flinched. "'Probably?'"

"Well, if she got pregnant, they'd've shot her, and I seriously doubt they'd treat STD's."

Arya winced.

"Where is the building?"

"The bar?" Eragon asked.

"No! The whorehouse!"

"I can get you there."

"How is the security?"

"None," he proclaimed.

"These girls could have just walked out at anytime?"

"No. They don't have a family, but they _do_ have STD's. Been threatened, too. They got no way to provide for 'emselves on the street. They'd just get shot and raped. If they went to the police, they'd just get deported or arrested for crime. The ones that got smuggled or dropped off here don't know their origin. Hell, if they escaped, the lucky ones'd go back into hooking to pay for food!"

Arya staggered, and Eragon rushed to catch her, but she pushed him off. "Do – not – touch – me."

"Right. sorry."

"We are going to have to take your car, because I have a bike." Arya glared at him when he laughed. "Just 'cause I'm a girl does not mean that Im all about Barbies and sunshine, Eragon!"

"That's not it! It's just that I'm a bike rider too."

"The other bike on the rack is yours?" Eragon beamed and confirmed it. "That old thing? You need to grease the rust off it."

"If you got the grease, then I will."

"Whatever."

Eragon half-skipped down the hallway, twisted the round doorknob and held it for Arya, who bumped him while exiting the room, making him shudder.

"That was quick," Morn commented, chuckling. "Then again, it's Eragon we're talkin' about."

The drunk patron snorted and guffawed. He regurgitated only liquid and flecks of a is, then passed out.

"I got 'im," Eragon volunteered. Arya scrutinized the boy as he pulled the man off the counter and laid him sideways. He slid the unconscious patron's left arm underneath the limp head. Next, Eragon used the right arm and the palm of its hand to prevent the body from plopping forward. The right knee bent at an obtuse angle, partially wrapping around its counterpart underneath. "That'll keep him from drowning in vomit," Eragon explained. "If one a you gents'd call an ambulance, they can get him off the floor."

The innkeeper/bartender grimaced. As positive as the effects of Eragon's actions were for the tavern's reputation, Morn hated squatting down to scrape barf stains out of wood.

Eragon opened the door for Arya again, who glowered.

"I'm sorry – next time I'll just slam it in your face, then."

She refused to respond, stepping on the bike. She straightened her forefinger underneath two switches and pushed up. _Click!_

Eragon undid three locks on his own ride. He sensed Arya's trademark eyebrow and questioning stare. "What? It's a shady neighborhood."

Arya avoided offending her new colleague by not retorting.

The metal frame absorbed the cold night, and a familiar pair of legs warmed the black cushion. Two switches were flipped, and the motorcycle began to breathe, its engine producing heat.

A button was pushed by an unkown force, and the cool headlight radiated with burning light. Two gloved hands gripped the handlerbars, the studded rubber of the palms gritting against the grip of the handles.

The wheels spun hesitantly and scraped off rust. The pebble-covered road jostled the vehicle. What began as a low hum transitioned to a loud roar as the bike blew through a yellow light.

The frame and seat were warm now, and the lights, burning. The front wheel twisted and the motorcycle drifted around the corner.

Had it been capable of knowing, the bike would have known the legs, feeling no difference between Eragon and Garrow. Had it been capable of thought, the bike would have thought of the time Garrow had courted Marian at Senior Prom. And if it could reminisce, it would have reminisced about the way that the pair pressed closely together. But alas, it could not do any of these things. It obeyed its rider without recognition with the friction of rusting brakes as it decelerated. It parked across the gravelled asphalt from a building.

XXX

Elva heard two voices outside and rose against the headboard of her bug-infested bed. She reorientated herself from the panic and relaxed in the safety of the room, listening to the soft, purring snores of several girls around her. Bunk beds lined both sides of the room, on the northmost of which she occupied at the very end by a door. The boards above her bunk creaked and strained, but she dismissed all angst. The girl above Elva possessed a fear (one which she initially assumed was irrational) of being crushed. Panic spread like fleas amongst rats in the current environment, so Elva offered to take the lower matress.

The voices penetrated the cracks throughout the dealings of the walls again. One was low of pitch, soft, unstable. The emphasis and tone of the indistinct words belonged to an uncertain, questioning person. The sharp hissing of the higher-pitched responded portrayed both frustration and oxymoronic comfort. The lock clicked and Eragon snuck into the room. Elva immediately identified the worrier as him.

"Eragon? What's wrong?"

"Elva, I've come to take ya home."

She paled. She couldn't leave; where would she go?

"I've got a place for you," he reassured.

"Oh yeah? They'll find me. It doesn't matter." She knew the threats were a scare tactic, but she also knew that they had worked.

"Look, Elva, I'm with the cops. We can protect you."

His tone communicated reprehension.

"They don't want me, do they?"

"Look, we can make a deal with them." His eyes reflected light in the dark, and with it a pleading gaze.

"What? So they can interrogate me, then deport me to a buncha strangers where I'll be sold again? No way!"

"Elva, I'm not leaving here without you."

She noticed the trademark stubborness in her friend. "You idiot. You're act'lly gonna stay here – even when they come for me?"

"If that's what it takes."

"You'd at least better have some food."

"I brought a Payday bar. It's melted, but it's still your favorite."

She grinned, though it pained the bruises on her face. She tugged at the hem of her shirt, but it refused to stretch over her navel. It did not, however, refuse to widen the tears above her shoulders in the brief sleeves. A breeze made her exposed and numb shins tingle. The only dimension the rags accommodated for was Elva's thin waist span.

When she exited the room, Elva sensed a gaze before she saw the observer. _A_ _stranger? And female, too._ The starving girl noted how the woman initially tensed upon sighting Eragon, but more so how she forced herself to relax after recognition. _Distant to men and comfortable with Eragon?_ _Maybe she just freaked out about me..._ She reconsidered. Eragon _could_ be annoying. Perhaps the woman simply did not want him to notice her discomfort.

Elva blinked, frustrated. She needed more information. Then she realized that she was leaving the barn. She associated her lack of panic with Eragon's presence. The stress response triggered after she mentally reviewed the image of the tensing woman. She almost returned to her cot, but noticed Eragon's calm countenance.

"Who's this?" she finally asked.

"I'm Arya."

Elva squinted to block the blinding rays of the streetlights and gasped. The girl was gorgeous, and her face, symmetrical. Her hair was blacker than the dirt on Elva's own face. The foreign eyes shone green despite the poor lightning. Elva noticed the hunger in Eragon's dilated pupils, but also the respect. No personality nor emotions highlighted the stranger's rigid form.

Elva smiled. _You're one a those, eh? I wonder why you don't feel safe to open up..._ Elva reciprocated the stranger's uplifted eyebrow. This "Arya" revealed a plethora of insight just by withholding most of her internal conflict. _How ironic_ , Elva mused.

She did not wish to confront the woman in front of Eragon, but she would with him gone. She glanced at the Honda motorcycle parked beside the rust bucket that Eragon used.

"That your bike?"

The woman nodded.

"Can I ride with you?" She used the nice ride as an excuse, but she really just wanted to sate her inquisitions. Eragon seemed disappointed, but Elva had ridden with him plenty of times before, and she wanted to know this person. It was no consequence of concern, as Elva restricted empathy to confirmed traumas, but rather of curiousity.

"Sure," Arya permitted.

Elva feigned innocence with a smile and stepped on the bike, holding onto Arya to retain balance.

"Why'd you come here?" Elva whispered.

"I can't bear to see a child in pain."

"Funny. You don't mark me as the caring type."

"How so?"

"I've seen the way you bury your emotions. You think they make you weak, yes? They also make you human."

"You're wrong," Arya snapped.

 _Now we're gettin' somewhere!_ "You just confirmed I was right. Who hurt you?"

The woman stiffened. "No one."

"That's a load a bull. C'mon, tell me."

"Nobody hurt me."

"Not that you wanna admit. My advice? Find someone you trust to confide in."

"I don't need to."

The ambiguity alerted Elva's intuition. Every human desired to be heard, and it was this subconscious desire which allowed the subtler hints of a person's thoughts. _Don't need to trust, or don't need to confide?_ Although Arya probably remained ignorant of it, Elva accepted both meanings.

"You don't trust people either? God, you're messed up."

"You're one to talk."

"Yeah. Yeah, I am."

Arya never responded. Elva had cracked the shell, but it was not her place to shatter it. Walls, after all, couldn't blocked water without a working seal.

* * *

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	6. 6 – Why Sleeping Dogs Lie

How's the dialogue now that I've edited it?

* * *

"Where the _hell_ h've you _been_?" Brom demanded.

"C'mon, I go out to the Spine all the time!" Eragon protested.

"If you really went to the Spine," Roran chided, "then you wouldn't've been gone the entire night. Where were you really?

"I went to see Elva."

"Elva?" Roran sighed. "Eragon, I've told you to stay away from that girl! You can't help her!"

"Wait, Eragon, tell me you didn't go 'n rescue that girl you told me about!" Brom had aimed his eyes directly into Eragon's, forcing him to cower underneath the old man.

"Well, what if I did?"

"Jesus Christ!" Roran exclaimed. "Can't you do a damned thing anyone tells you to?"

"Eragon," Brom inquired. "Where i' she now?"

"Arya dropped her off at a friend's."

"Wait, that cop? There's no way she went out with you, Eragon. She's seriously outta your league."

"Oh, yeah! I forgot to tell you. Y'see—"

"Hush, boy! We can't tell 'im about that!"

Eragon recoiled. _How am I supposed to lie to Roran?_

"Can't tell me about what?"

"It's gover'ment business," Brom dismissed. "Can't say."

"Eragon, we're bros, man! You can tell me, cancha?"

Eragon shook his head.

"We grew up together! After all we've been through, you still don't trust me?"

"Roran, it's not that!"

"Fine, if you don't wanna share your life with me, I get it. Consider me out of it!"

Roran stormed out the entryway, through the kitchen and down the hall, slamming the door to his room.

"We need ta go to work, kid," Brom muttered.

"I wish ev'rybody would stop calling me that!"

"And I wish ya didn't act like it! Come on! We're gonna miss the bus stop!"

Eragon shuffled to the door and caught it mid-swing. To traverse the three concrete steps, he leaned against the white metal railings, jolting each time the step down proved steeper than anticipated.

He rubbed his eyes, then his temples.

"Eragon, wha' time is it?"

"Whuh?" He shook his head, trying to clear the fog.

"Damnit, boy! Just check yer phone fer the time!"

"Oh, okay. Sorry." Eragon withdrew his iPhone from his right pocket, clicking it on. squinted, the back side of his eyes sore. He scrunched them shut, then lifted his eyelids a second later. "Six . . . Thirty-three? No, thirty-two."

"We're gonna hafta hitch a ride with someone. Know anybody?"

"I have a bike, y'know," Eragon suggested.

"That ol' rust bucket? Heh, the breaks'll prolly lock up on ya. Plus, you aren't awake enough to ride!"

"Okay, fine. Just lemme think."

Brom sniggered. "From what I seen, that'll be awhile."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Shut up." Who could he call? Arya? No, she'd kill him. Fírnen would spend too much time with his eyes on Brom instead of the road. He didn't know Murtagh or Thorn well enough.

 _I guess that leaves Saphira._ He didn't know her that well either, but they were supposed to be partners, and she seemed like pleasant enough to company. The problem was that he didn't know her number. Then again, she and Fírnen had hit it off pretty well.

He entered in his passcode: Brisingr. He swiped the screen to the right, looking for the white speech bubble in the green box. Three rows down, two icons across. He sent a message, pulling out the business card from his pocket, entering the number.

-hey its eragon need saphs #-

-y?- Fírnen replied.

-chill bro shes just my partner- Eragon reassured.

-ik ur in2 arya anyway :p-

Eragon pounded his thumbs against the keypad. -stfu- he snapped.

-lol chill and the # is 7128934-

-thx-

-np-

"Ya done textin', or should I call in sick?"

"One sec," Eragon droned.

-saph can i get a ride?- Eragon requested.

-ummmmm whose this?-

-eragon-

-kk were r u?- Saphira replied.

-farmer way-

-b their in 5-

"Ya done yet?" Brom questioned, staring at his fingernails.

"Saphira's coming in five."

XXX

"Are you sure about this, Saph? They're gonna know..." Fírnen's face was stained red, and his green hair seriously needed to be combed. "You have that look again."

"Hm? Oh, sorry. It's just that you look like a strawberry." She smiled. He was cute when flustered.

"I'm just not sure that this is a good idea. I mean, we're co-workers!"

"Fírnen, if you're really this worried, we can just tell them that I needed your car since I don't have one."

"Okay, but we really need to talk about..."

"Us?" He sighed, relieved for her to have used the word.

"I dunno. I guess we'll just see where it goes."

"Yeah. So does that mean—"

"We're here," Saphira announced.

Brom raised an eyebrow at Saphira in the driver's seat of Fírnen's turquoise SUV. Eragon grinned, walking around the trunk to the right side.

"You two gettin' along fine?" he jested, making Fírnen burrow his face in his hands. Saphira smiled at her partner.

"I don't have a car, and Fírnen here was sweet enough to let me use his."

Brom squinted at the couple. "And you're drivin' b'cause...?"

 _Damn it._

"I, uh," Fírnen began. "Saphira here—"

"Save it," Brom interrupted. "Jus' don' tell Ajihad, and don't let it distract you in the field."

She studied Eragon in the rear-view mirror, noting the sacs of the bottom eyelids, which he struggled to seal in place. "Eragon, you okay? You look like you're in need of some serious coffee."

"Jus' lemme sleep..."

"You had plen'y a time ta do that last night!" Brom spat.

Eragon covered his ears. "Shut up!"

"I only shut my door fer one thing: salesmen," Brom retorted.

Saphira snorted, and in her peripheral vision, Fírnen stretched his lips to conceal a grin. She wanted to kiss him, but she had to focus on her surroundings, particularly the hedge to her right.

"You're about t—"

"I know, Brom," Saphira interjected, yanking the steering wheel right.

"Ow! You couldn't've warned me?" Eragon exclaimed.

Shrugging, Saphira replied, "With that corner? I'm amazing, but I ain't psychic."

XXX

A couple days ago, she'd disapproved of Eragon. After last night, however, she'd learned just how caring of a person he really was. Immature, yes, but still caring.

She also noticed how blantantly infatuated he was with her. With anybody else, she'd be glad they wouldn't approach her. Eragon, however, was a different matter. He just didn't let go, even after witnessing her attitude.

The situation somewhat amused her. She was twenty-five, and Eragon, eighteen. He couldn't possibly think he had a chance.

 _So why does he persist?_ The only other person to not lose hope had been – _No, Arya. Don't think about it._ She forced the name down, but it threatened to resurface. _Emotions are weak. I am strong._ She repeated the words to herself until she believed them.

"Arya, where's the coffee machine?"

She whirled around to Saphira. Fírnen stood uncomfortably close to her. The girl didn't seem to realize it, though. "I have one in my office. Follow me."

"Okay." They passed several offices in the hallway, finally arriving at her own. "Room one-twenny-six." She waved her lanyard over a panel next to the door. A red dot switched to green in the corner of it, followed by a click. She held the door open for Fírnen and Saphira, shutting it behind herself.

"Is there something going on between the two of you that I should know about?"

"Nothing!"

Arya narrowed her eyes. "Mhmm . . . You are going to have be more subtle if you want to fool anybody."

She noticed the seven empty packs of creamer littering the counter. Raising an eyebrow, Arya asked, "You like some coffee with your sugar?"

"It's for Eragon," she explained. "I'm betting he likes it with a crap-tonna sugar in it."

Arya shook her head. "Did he even sleep at all last night?"

Saphira turned around, a cup of steaming coffee in each hand. "You have anything to do with that?"

Arya nearly gagged. "Eragon? God, no! Not in the way you are implying, anyway."

"Care to explain?" Saphira pressed.

"Saphira, there is nothing – nor will there ever be – anything going on between me and Eragon. He is far too immature."

"He _is_ cute though," she teased.

"Yeah," Arya admitted. "Children tend to be that way."

Fírnen snorted into his coffee, then looked down at it, disappointed.

"We need to get to work," Arya said.

"Arya, would it kill you to just chillax?"

Fírnen stopped walking and turned to Saphira in horror. "You did _not_ just say that."

"What? It's true."

"No, I mean that word."

"'Chillax?'" Saphira questioned, smirking as Fírnen cringed. If Arya were one to show emotion, she reckoned that she would have smiled.

XXX

Eragon's mind was a printer, mass-producing coherent thought on most days, with the exception of when his brain experienced a paper jam, as it had now. Saphira had told him to stay, and he'd lacked the energy to argue, so he consented.

She returned with a cream-colored paper cup of hot liquid, offering it.

"What is it?" Eragon questioned.

"A lethal venom tested by the US government . . . It's coffee, dipstick!"

"No thanks," Eragon declined.

"C'mon, it's coffee! Everyone loves coffee!"

"Never had it," he mumbled.

"Did you just say what I think you did?"

"Yes, Saphira. I've never had coffee."

Thorn, strolling by, stopped mid-hum. "Holy shit. Kid's never had coffee?"

Eragon slouched further than he already had. "Garrow never let us have caffeine – said it was the tobacco industry all over again."

"You call your dad by name?" Thorn asked, flabbergasted.

Eragon punched a wall. "Not my birth father. But, hell, he was the real dad out of the two of them. 'Cept that he's dead."

Saphira and Thorn both showed pitying miens, and he nearly punched the wall again. "I'll take the coffee now."

"'Bout time. Any longer and it'd've gone cold."

He sipped the sweet liquid, but as soon as the substance passed his mouth, a bitter aftertaste lathered his tongue. He guzzled the rest down, feeling the coffee's heat travel down his esophagus.

Saphira opened her mouth to tease him, but an alarm censored her words.

"What are you three doing, standing around!" Arya spat. _Odd. When'd she get here?_ "That is the alarm for active shooters on base!"

Eragon and Saphira turned to each other, both silently asking, ' _Who'd attack a government agency?'_

* * *

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	7. 7 – Front-Door Greeters

Whoo, editing. I'll be editing several chapters multiple times. Enjoy the improved writing!

* * *

The first thing that happened when the alarm shrieked was Fírnen's yelling for Saphira. Arya couldn't stop him from searching either, for a bullet had grazed her scalp. She dropped and yanked her desk down by the legs, using it as a shield. She sincerely hoped one of the uniforms had recalled spare officers, but it wasn't her job to worry. She crawled out the door, rose against the wall and sprinted down the hall in the direction of the equipment.

She arrived at the 'armory,' which was really a large closet stuffed with bulletproof vests, one sniper rifle, boxes of various types of clips, a rack of M16's and shotguns, and a collection of tasers. She retrieved an M16 and pulled the strap over her head. _Better bring some spare clips, too._ She sorted through and selected the spare munitions, beelined down a hallway, and halted before her partner and the new recruits.

"Fírnen," Arya greeted, mentally shouting at him for bounding after Saphira. "There's a sniper back in the armory. Use it from one of the windows. You two," she said, pointing to Saphira and Eragon. "Grab a shotgun and a vest. This is not Call of Duty, so it actually has range." She glared at Eragon, who held the back up to his face. "And Eragon, if you do not want a gun lodged into your skull, fire from the hip."

She noticed the deeply blue eyes Saphira had, and she realized that Eragon's brown irises resembled milk chocolate. Both sets looked alert, although Eragon's seemed worried. Not the pre-battle-jitters kind of worried, but more... concerned. She weaved between the trio, continuing to the building's entrance.

 _He actually cares for me?_ It irritated her, for it meant the boy's infatuation wasn't just within his pants. It was the concern of a friend, but Arya filtered it through vanity. _Honestly, does he really think it'll go anywhere? Why can't he just grow up? It's gonna distract him._

She cursed when she reached the end of the hall, sliding behind the curved secretary's desk. Blood wet her jeans, and she checked the source for a pulse, finding none. "Damn," Arya repeated. The secretary had been in her sixties, posing no threat to the intruders.

Gunfire sputtered overhead. Arya loaded her rifle and disabled the safety. Two men approached her left side, and she bursted two sets of shots into their heads. She frowned at their attire: yellow bandanas and casual clothing. Yellow was the color of the Urgal gang.

Arya peered to the left of the desk, dispatched an enemy and ducked behind cover before enemy retaliation. Bullets barraged the spot she had just occupied until two shotgun blasts echoed in tandem. The noises were succeeded by a flurry of Spanish and a round of a pistol before the shotguns erupted again.

"Who's behind the desk?" Saphira demanded.

"Me!" Arya replied. "Now get your asses behind cover!"

"Saph, help me pile the bodies up," Eragon said.

"No time! Get back here!"

More rapid Spanish conveyed her point, and Eragon dove to Arya's right. His face greened at the sight of the corpse behind her.

"They shot Miss Hess?" he croaked.

"Eragon," Saphira said with a hint of warning. "We can't help her now."

Arya noticed the rage of Eragon's face. She rolled her eyes even before he charged at the invaders "Foolish boy," she mumbled. Gunfire erupted into Eragon's screams.

"Eragon!" Saphira called.

"Saphira, you go left; I will take right." The girl nodded. Upon emerging, Saphira felled three gangsters before the other four turned. Arya leveled the M16 to the height of their heads and necks, looking at Saphira. ' _Duck_ ,' she mouthed to the young adult. When the girl did, Arya sprayed the room, felling the foes.

Saphira dropped her shotgun and rushed to Eragon.

"Saphira, I can take care of him. Find the others so you do not get shot as well."

Saphira glared at her, unrelenting.

Arya sighed. "Look, the vest caught the most of it. He probably has a broken rib or two at the most. I can get him out of here without puncturing his lung."

"Lung? No! I'm not leaving!"

"You are hysterical. I cannot trust you to not endanger the patient." She half-frowned. She had to keep the recruit dehumanized.

"Fine," Saphira grunted, storming to an adjacent room.

"Kid, this will hurt like hell, but I need you to work with me."

"Okay…"

She slid her arms under his armpits, bending her elbows up. She dragged him behind the counter.

"I need to inspect the wounds," Arya told him. "You are going to have to take your shirt off."

She unclipped the straps of his vest and cut the cloth off his torso, knowing it'd hurt him to disrobe without assistance. Four bruises occupied his chest, mixes of green, purple, and yellow.

"You broke some ribs... Why the hell didga run out like that?"

"I just... I saw Miss Hess on the ground, and—"

"Eragon, there will be so many horrors that you' see in this job, but we cannot have you charging in every time you seen one!"

He chuckled, but it turned into a groan, and his smile became a grimace, his expression, a wince.

"You think this is funny?" Arya snapped. She wondered why Ajihad would hire such a fool.

"Sorry, I just thoughta the phrase 'going ham.' Reminded me of something from TF2."

"You're thinking of computer games right now? Seriously?"

"Now I'm thinking of you," he admitted, blushing.

"Eragon, we need to talk about that."

"'Bout what?"

"Eragon, I know you have a thing for me, but you have got to let it go. I do not feel the same way, and it will be too distracting."

"Arya, it won't."

"You swear?" she asked.

"I swear."

"Good. I am going to secure the rest of the area. _Stay here._ " Eragon consented, and Arya reloaded the M16. She sprang up with the barrel pointed outwards. The agent swept her view across the room, but only sighted corpses. She bent over the carcass of a dead officer and retrieved his radio. Flipping it on, Arya pushed the button.

"Arya here. Lobby is secure, but I have got wounded."

"Arya!" Ajihad greeted. "Saphira told me about the situation. Eragon okay?"

"Few broken ribs. No punctured lungs."

"Great. Hand a radio to Fírnen. Then get outside and join Murtagh and Thorn."

XXX

"Hey, Fírnen."

The spontaneous nature of Arya's greeting caused him to miss his shot. "Damnit. Couldn't you have waited until _after_ I took the shot?"

"Just dropping off a radio," she said, sliding it along the floor towards him.

"Thanks."

"Mhm," she replied, exiting the office.

The radio, emanating sparking chatter, was already on, and Fírnen attempted to push the button with his left hand, but his dominant fingers wouldn't consent to his command. He set it on its side so that the weight of the device would hold the button down.

"Fírnen here. What's the situation?"

"Insane," replied a staticky Murtagh.

"You on sniper?" Thorn asked.

"Yep. Got it on a tripod. Replaces my hand."

"Great. Murtagh, tell him what to shoot."

"Fírnen, see the guys with the bird masks?"

"Yeah. That'd be the Ra'zac. Need 'em for interrogation."

"Crap," Murtagh spat into the speaker. "We need those two taken out."

"I can shoot their calves," Fírnen suggested.

Thorn whistled. "Quite a claim. Go for it."

A large boom indicated the rifle's action as did the Ra'zac's fall, but the target rose.

"The hell?" Fírnen exclaimed. "This gun can pierce vests! How're they still standin'?"

"Shit!" Murtagh shouted. "Only one thing's strong enough that they'd be wearing: carbon fibers."

"Carbon fibers?" Fírnen laughed. "That shit's worth a fortune a stitch!"

"Drug money'd pay for that," Murtagh lied. "Granted, it'd be a lot, but it could."

"No it wouldn't." Fírnen said.

Murtagh sighed. "Fírnen, there're some things we can't tell people. This is one of 'em."

"Guys!" Arya shouted in the background. "They have AK's!"

XXX

The bulk of his arms allowed him to control the recoil of the M9. He aimed the pistol at an approaching SUV, unloading the magazine into the tinted windows.

They responded with AK-47's. A stray bullet hit his bulletproof covering. "Crap!" His chest throbbed, but unlike Eragon, he wasn't a baby; he'd grown up with worse injuries.

Using a sedan as cover, he laid himself down on the asphalt, pointing the gun at the enemies' feet from under the chassis. Three gangsters toppled, and he fired a bullet at each of the exposed bodies.

To Murtagh's left, Thorn engaged in melee combat, using a pocket knife against a dagger. Tired of slashing, he kicked the opponent in the crotch and stabbed the top of his head.

Murtagh witnessed Thorn retrieve the dagger and weave through cars, bodies, or anything else that provided cover while he shrunk the distance to the enemies. He'd also dropped his radio.

"What does he think he is doing?" Arya hissed.

"Probably gonna slash some tires and flank 'em," Murtagh said. "I reckon it'd help to distract the sons of bitches."

A large man slid to just a meter away from Murtagh, pointing his assault rifle. The two agents simultaneously invaded the enemy skull with a bullet.

Murtagh crept to the body and carefully extracted the rifle, holding the warm, slippery metal with two cautious hands. "Haven't used one a these in years," he commented.

He crouched, setting the gun on the front of the car, aim the muzzle at the oncoming trespassers. The notched sound the rifle made, combined with the rhythmic kickback, always made him feel badass. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed using this particular model of assault rifles, and he decided it was his favorite gun.

The attackers shouted, panicked, and scrambled, so Murtagh figured that Thorn had engaged the flank. In the confusion, the defenders managed to mow down the nearest layer of the onslaught and push.

Among the present officers, Murtagh recognized Nasuada, a gorgeous woman with eyes deeper than a polluted lake, her skin a sweetened coffee. He'd much like to taste it, but Ajihad would probably kill him. He corrected his staring before Arya could, ducking behind a Ford Highlander.

He noticed a scrawny man dressed in all black, the pale, arrogant face uncovered along with bloodshot eyes.

"Fírnen," Murtagh croaked. He cleared his throat from supposed mucus even though it was dry as desert air. "Status report on the person without a mask."

"I can do that," the agent remarked. "Holy shit. It's Durza. Lethal force has been authorized on every attempted arrest."

Murtagh groaned. He knew God wouldn't help him; it wasn't like he had been there in his childhood.

"Durza?" Arya asked. "He is ex-special forces."

"Branch?" Murtagh queried.

Arya made an upside-down smirk. "That is unknown. Even a SEAL is easier to confirm.

Murtagh paled. "So whatcher saying is that he's either Delta or above?"

She nodded. Helicopters hovered, flashing red and blue. A rope ladder flopped out of the side, and an armored man traversed it. A volley of gunfire countered his grip, and the limp body sunk through the air.

"Cover them!" Nasuada barked. Murtagh strafed from the compact parking space, holding down the trigger. After about three steps, he started to sprint. Had the gangsters been facing forward instead of up, he knew he would be dead. He dropped a row, and the rest of the offense focused on the ground troops.

"Fírnen, gotta shot on Durza?"

"Nah, man. The douche is using his men as a meat shield."

The helicopter landed behind the agents, and the SWAT team rushed out. Nasuada flapped her hand twice to summon them. The six people conversed in a serious of nods and indistinct suggestions. Two remained with Nasuada; two more returned to the helicopter to mount the installed miniguns, and the final unit raised a shield towards incoming fire as he or she sprinted to Murtagh and Arya – something Murtagh considered quite a feat with the heavy equipment.

"I'm Trianna," a female voice from greeted behind the headgear. "Chopper's gonna provide air support, and we'll help on the ground."

"Do you have a flashbang?" Arya inquired.

Murtagh and Trianna turned their heads towards her.

"What for?" Triana asked.

"Murtagh, get behind the shield with Trianna. It is going to be a tight fit, but it will have to do. I will throw the flashbang, and you two can push."

"Guys," Murtagh warned via comm. "Arya's gotta suicidal plan that involves a flashbang. Shield your eyes."

He reloaded his AK-47 and pressed against Trianna, holding it against the right edge of the shield, pointing the muzzle forward. He glanced under the SWAT member's extended arm and internally jumped at Nasuada's irked (and terrifying) expression. Holding down a button, he shouted into the speaker. The grenade reacted, and the underside of Murtagh's eyelids glowed red from the light. He aimed his rifle at random locations. When the effect subsided three seconds later, Murtagh stumbled to avoid tripping on corpses. He cheered upon realizing that the attackers had retreated, and a chorus accompanied the celebration.

* * *

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	8. 8 – Good Grief

The character analysis is the second half of this chapter. I'll explain some things that I think are important for you to know if you're not good at judging character. It'll help you understand motives.

* * *

Ajihad, seated in a peeling cushioned chair, leaned onto the desk. He pinched his forehead and pressured his temples.

"Brom!" he barked. "Status report!"

Brom slouched against a wall with his hands buried in his front pockets. "Eragon—idiot boy—decided 'e was invincible. Resta the team's fine, though. You'll be pissed to know that Nasuada led the skirmish out front—a natural leader, that one."

Concern immediately overwhelmed Ajihad. "Where is she? She alright?"

Brom chuckled. "Notta scratch on her."

His previous anxiety dropped into frustration. "I told her not to go! She doesn't do a damned thing I tell her to!"

"Just like her father," Brom jested.

"Brom, this isn't funny! She could get hurt!"

"Ajihad, we both pulled a lotta crap in our day. You've shot Durza, charged straight at gunfire, compromised cases, and we both know how much worse I am than you. Hell, we don't play by the rules now, either."

"Your point?" the distressed father asked, rising from his seat.

"Some people die for no reason, just walkin' outside and get hit by a car. Then you get bastards like us who could fly kites in a storm and not get hit."

"...And?"

"You can't protect her from everything, and you can't protect her forever. You've put a lotta people at risk; why is this time any different?"

"She's my daughter! I'm not gonna put her in the suicide lane."

"She's perfectly capable of driving now. You just gotta let her use the lane for a turn. You had yours."

"But . . . I'm her parent," Ajihad meekly objected.

"No, you're her dad. You already got ta raise 'er."

Brom shoved his hands back in his pockets (when he had pulled them out, Ajihad didn't know), then slouched out the room.

 _Were we really talking about Nasuada?_ Ajihad slumped back, and what felt like a tube pushed against his neck just below the atlas.

XXX

"He's awake!" Saphira cheered.

"Finally! I've been meaning to teach him common sense," Elva said.

"I don't think he can be taught," Saphira reasoned.

The child, dressed in a coat and jeans despite the temperature, shrugged. "Never stopped me from tryin'." Then she sprinted into Eragon's assigned room.

Saphira envied this girl's apparent companionship. It seemed the entire world had been bonded with Eragon before she could, like she'd been robbed of a right. Saphira dismissed her emotions and followed Elva.

"You idiot!" Elva shouted.

"What were you _thinking_?" Saphira demanded.

"I just saw Miss Hess dead, and—" The bottom of Eragon's throat filled with soreness, and tears pressed from behind his eyes. "So many dead..." he whispered. "I got so – so _angry_..." He remembered the rage. It replaced the guilt. If it had just been his emotions which killed others, not himself, was it really so bad? Eragon knew he wouldn't murder anybody – it wasn't in his nature.

 _Right?_

Elva sighed and embraced the boy. "It's okay," she cooed. "It's all gonna be 'kay."

Saphira stepped to the end of the bed, her arms two inversed pendulums at her sides. She stopped, slamming her right foot on the hard floor, bent her elbows, and gripped her hips. "Don't you ever pull a stunt like that again! If you continue to pull crap like this, I'll restrain ya, shove you into a closet, and lock the door, capiche?"

He leaned back into his pillow, and Elva withdrew her arms. Saphira smirked. He looked so timid, so . . . little.

"Capiche," Eragon replied, partially hiding under the covers. He kept the comforters just below his eyes.

"I'm glad we had this talk, little one."

Elva grinned as Eragon's partner turned and loped outside. She bent over Eragon and kissed his forehead. "Get some sleep. You'll need it to deal with Arya 'n Brom."

He relaxed. "Love ya, sis."

"Love ya too, bro."

"Guys!" Fírnen shouted, panting. He gripped the doorframe to support himself. "Ajihad's dead."

XXX

She crossed her father's hands, resting one atop the other. A surprisingly peaceful expression covered his mien. She ignored the temptation to bury her face into the corpse's chest. She would not cry, not here. The agency and the Varden needed her to be strong, especially now.

A heavy hand plopped onto her shoulder. "Go home. Ya need some time ta grieve," Brom whispered. "It saddens me to say you'll hafta come back t'morrow, though."

She considered it. She and her father hadn't been on the best of terms around his time of death, and she'd never had a chance to say goodbye. She'd beg some god for more time, but she knew it wouldn't be enough. It would never be goodbye, would it? Was there even a proper way to say such a farewell?

 _Should I have thanked him?_

"Thanks, Brom, but no thanks. I hafta stay here. Now more than ever, I'm needed." For Nasuada needed to show gratitude.

XXX

Murtagh had decided by now that the rookie would get them killed. _What the hell was he doing, rushin' out like that?_

"Damn fool," he grumbled, massaging his forehead. Spikes of light, projected from the HP monitor before him, skewered his eyeballs. The report that he was revising included Saphira and Eragon as civilians. He'd used Ajihad's name for the patient stored in Eragon's bed at the infirmary.

"Paperwork, eh?"

Thorn grabbed the armrest of the spinning chair and pulled himself onto the cushion, rotating it around. He propped and crossed his feet on the desk.

"Thorn, feet off the desk," Arya ordered from behind an adjacent cubicle.

"Don't deny it," Fírnen added. "If Brom sees ya, you're screwed."

Murtagh huffed. He seriously doubted they cared for his partner's well-being. _Probably just don't want Brom any more pissed,_ he reasoned.

Murtagh resumed the summary. _How the hell do I cover up the new girl?_

"Just say she wasn't there," Thorn suggested.

"Yeah, 'cause a Good Samaritan shotgunned, like, six armed gangsters – solo," Murtagh deadpanned.

Thorn raised his eyebrows and pulled the sides of his lips in. "You put Eragon as a civilian, though, and he had a vest. How does that work?"

"There was no signout on the equipment. Ajihad's supposedly dying in Eragon's infirmary bed."

"And Miss Hess?" Thorn inquired.

"I hadn't thought about that," Murtagh admitted. "Still, I doubt a sixty-year-old woman would be a badass."

"Whatever works, works," Thorn verbally shrugged. He crunched into an apple.

* * *

Before anyone asks, there is no romantic relationship between Eragon and Elva. A male and a female can be best friends without romance. My sister and her best friend are constantly explaining that they are like siblings to each other, not a couple, but people keep asking when they'll get together. It's a novel concept, I know, but there are male-female relationships out there which are very close and not intimate.

Eragon's going to have more in-depth internal conflict about killing people. I'm adjusting his psyche through past events a bit so that he's more mature, but his natural traits will be the same. I have to speed things up considerably to get him and Arya together. Eragon will be curious, and he'll be able to read. He'll be the nerd who's looked at random stuff online and in the library. We've established that he's caring and slightly naïve.

Saphira has no romantic feelings for Eragon either. She's possessive and egocentric. Like the books, she doesn't care about many people, but she those that she does, it's a deep compassion. In the books, she's as brutal as the Ra'zac (though it's not as apparent, being from Eragon's point of view), but I'm making her less... Pathological.

Brom will not just be coping through revenge (because he should have gone insane, that being his only technique and being in a small town for 1.5 decades). He'll cope through filling the empty roles (Selena and Saphira I) with other people. He'll be fatherly/brotherly towards many of our characters, but don't worry, he's still a vengeful person. If the time comes for him to choose between his family and revenge, he'll go for revenge. Vengeance is seen as his duty to him, and the last time family was chosen over duty, the family died. That and revenge blinds people. He's an angry person. He'll choose to not get over it, think revenge will stop the pain, and ignore what he has to agonize over what he's lost.

Arya's gonna be more informal. Why? Elva just poked a hole above all the upwelling of her inner turmoil. I plan to expand that into a geyser.

I have so much room for Fírnen and Thorn. Thorn is going to be fiercely loyal, especially to Murtagh. Remember when Fírnen tried to prove himself in mating? It's a bit different, but I'll expand on that. I have him nerve damage, and he'll be desperate to prove that he's not disabled or hindered in any way. He'll hurt himself worse until he accepts that he is. The one thing that was shown was that, if Fírnen wants to prove himself, he will try to do so.


	9. 9 – Another Day, Another Conflict

Settling outta writer's block. Still pretty swamped, though.

* * *

 _Ajihad is dead_. Eragon had to loop the thought until he believed it. He remembered learning about the stages of grief, and he finally understood denial. It just didn't seem real.

Elva didn't grieve like everybody else. She'd never known Ajihad, and the only relevance the two shared was the man's reluctance to rescue her. However, she witnessed the grief in Eragon and his colleagues, and she did possess an overdeveloped sense of empathy, so she still endured emotional pain.

The only two people who didn't show emotion were Arya and Nasuada. Murtagh snorted. Arya he understood, but Nasuada? Her own damn father just died, and she didn't seem phased. Then again, she seemed the strong type of gal, so he doubted she'd show it – at least not publicly.

Thorn lacked his cheery demeanour, mourning the one man who accepted himself and his partner without prejudice – a rare thing between government agencies, who viewed each other as rivals. Thorn would spark out a comment occasionally, but more from habit than humor. He didn't even smile at his own jokes.

Saphira occupied a bench, Fírnen pressed closely into her side, her arm gripping his shoulder. He placed his head in the crook of her neck. She held his left hand on her knee, and he wished he could grip it, but his fingers still didn't respond.

Brom was broken . . . again. He coped the only way he knew: focusing on revenge. He had lost his last family member, and revenge could temporarily replace them.

Orik, an ambassador from Therinsford's police force, had arrived to express his condolences, accompanied by Hrothgar, their chief.

Izlanzadí, Arya's mother, had arrived, entrusting Brom with a specially minted badge to represent trust. She noticed how the boy, Eragon, regarded Arya. He seemed a nice enough lad, and Arya needed to get over Fäolin, so if she could encourage anything between those two, she would. She also intended to repair her relationship with Arya, which she realized she'd broken. Arya was stubborn, however – much like her father. She would deny any apology if allowed, but Izlanzadí didn't plan to. She strolled into the lobby. The floor was covered in cardboard, adjoined by blue tape. Contractors scrambled to reapply drywall where needed, sanding damaged sections.

As her mother loped into presence, Arya reinforced her seals. Half-faked tears glinted on the woman's cheeks, which Arya proceeded to ignore. However, with the words that were spoken, she could not.

"Arya, sweetie. I'm so sorry for everything I've done. You don't have to accept—"

 _Yes, I do._

"—but I apologize for my foolishness. Please forgive me."

Arya inwardly declined, but she couldn't express it. This was just like her mother, this manipulation. Instead of asking in private, where some mutual respect could be shown, she'd force Arya to hide the bitterness.

 _She'd make a great politician_ , Arya mused, before realizing her delay.

"I forgive you," Arya lied. She forced her jaw to relax.

Elva's intuition immediately resonated with Izlanzadí. Manipulative, but with the best intentions. She doesn't understand love, but desired to receive it more than anything. Due to her prejudiced nature, however, Elva doubted she could teach her about it through a conversation. No, people like Izlanzadí needed to learn – a difficult feat for one who refused to be wrong. Elva's brain fussed over a solution. This woman needed to feel, and the only readable way to accomplish this was for her to suffer.

"Izlanzadí," Brom spoke. "We, uh, aren't exactly in a p'sition ta teach our trainees. I believe there's an old friend a yours that could help?"

The woman narrowed her eyes. "We must make arrangements. Do you happen to have a private place to talk?"

"Right this way," Brom beckoned.

When the two elders exited, Elva whipped around towards Arya.

"Arya, could I speak to you in private, please?"

"There is no other place for me to go. Nearly the entire building is sealed off for construction."

"We'll leave," Thorn said, guiding Murtagh out of the room. She saw the man's resistance. It spawned not from a desire to eavesdrop, but a refusal to be commanded.

"Fírnen has PT, and his arm ain't up for drivin'."

Eragon lingered, genuinely concerned for Arya, but decided she would flip if he eavesdropped.

"You've gotta speak to your mom," Elva said.

"Excuse me?"

"Drop the charade, Arya. I'll see through it."

"I do not know what you are talking about."

"She obviously rejected you – not that you'll admit it," Elva ventured.

"You do not possess the right t—"

"Well, duh, 'cause there's no one you've given the right to!"

Arya trembled, which surprised Elva.

"Oh my God. There was, wasn't there?"

Arya inhaled and exhaled, the vibrations stilling as the breaths continued. "I think we are done now."

"You need someone to confide in, Arya. You've bottled a lotta shit up, and sometime your cork's gonna pop!"

Arya ignored the call. She didn't know where she was going, and she didn't care. She had to get out of there. Elva had seen too much, and she'd uncovered things that Arya preferred to keep buried.

Unfortunately, Eragon saw her, and unlike everybody else, he didn't seem to understand her closed off nature. Even Elva did, although she had tried to break it.

"Arya? Are you okay?"

 _Damn him._ Why did he have to care about people so much?

"I am _fine_ , Eragon," she snapped.

He gripped her wrist and pulled her to face him.

"Arya, talk to me."

She tugged, but he didn't release his grip. She twisted as she pulled, but his fingers remained wrapped about her arm. She grabbed his wrist and made it pop from tort ion. She sprinted back to the lobby, then the door.

Despite the pulsing pain in his arm, Eragon didn't actually notice the injury until after Arya had left. His instincts screamed to stretch it. He bent the elbow up slightly and jerked it downwards. He repeated the motion thrice until he heard the expected crack. The throbbing piked into the feeling of being impaled at the joint, but the sensation faded throughout the next two seconds.

"Damn." Thorn whistled. "I've hearda bein' friend-zoned, but maimed?"

"Can it, Thorn," Eragon said.

"Look, dude. I'm gonna give you some advice: whatever the fuck ya did to get her to snap don't do that." Eragon scrutinized the redhead, then Murtagh behind him.

"Kinda figured that one out already."

"Good!" Murtagh chirped, clapping his hands together. "You're not as hopeless as I thought!"

"Yeah," Eragon agreed, studying the tile. "I'm probably worse."

"Y'know what you need?" Murtagh asked.

"Used to. Not so sure anymore."

"You need a drink," Murtagh affirmed, his tone convinced.

"I'm eighteen. It's kind'f illegal."

"Seriously? I started drinkin' at twelve!" Murtagh exclaimed.

"Don't his taxes pay your salary?" Thorn quipped.

"Are you sure he's a cop?" Eragon questioned.

"What, you thought cops never broke laws or somethin'?" Murtagh said.

"No," Eragon lied.

"California: Makes everything illegal so cops can break laws!" Thorn joked.

Eragon unhinged his mandible to state an argument, but locked his jaw back. "Act'lly, yeah. Kinda seems that way."

"God bless America!" the redhead snorted.

"No, you don't!" Brom shouted. "What would Garrow think?"

"He's too dead to care!" the boy whined.

"Wow, nice mood, piss-pants," Murtagh whistled.

He had to get out. He'd walk home if he had to, but he needed to leave. He stormed out the door. It was just something he needed to do.

"Eragon, where're ya goin'?"

"Home!"

"C'mon! I'll drive ya!"

He glared at Brom, silencing the old man's efforts.

XXX

"Saph," Fírnen groaned. "The phone."

"I know, I know!" The single verse of Apple's Marimba taunted them.

She tapped the green circle with the phone facing up. "Who is this?" _And why are you calling at twelve?_

 _"Saphira! It's about Eragon! Is he at your place?"_

"What? No, why—"

 _"God damn that boy! I can't find 'im anywhere!"_

"Brom, slow down. Where'd you last see him?"

 _"Last I heard, he was headin' home! Why, when I—"_

"Saph," Fírnen interposed.

 _"—till he—"_

"Brom."

 _"—like the—"_

"Brom..."

 _"—he is. And then—"_

"Brom!"

 _"What?"_

"I'll call you back," Saphira farewelled, ending the call before he could respond. "Phew. Now what did you wanna tell me?"

"I think I know where he is."

"Where?"

"Garrow's house."

* * *

I went back and fixed most of the dialogue. I've kept most of it the same for Brom because he's supposed to seem obscure.


	10. 10 – Heart of Glass

**I'm really excited about this one.**

 **Shoutout to Elemental and Engineer for reviewing! Seeing that I have a new review gets me real excited. ㈳3 It ain't easy doin' this on iPhone, y'know!**

 **Here I do a suttle POV switch. Tell me if you get confused. It'd be awkward if I did it any other way. It's kinda like when I switch to the dragons in Pendulum when Eragon and Arya are drunk.**

[Arya]

Arya twirled a black morning glory between her fingers before dropping it back into its glass vase. Her Android Galaxy chirped, and she retrieved it from the nightstand to her right. She rested her back against the wall, perpendicular to the headboard which stood below the beige curtains of the window. She unlocked the device, squinting at the bright screen. She entered in her long, complex passcode and scrolled through her messages.

Her thumb stilled mid-swipe at Fäolin's profile picture: a black morning glory. The fragment of the message read, "hey babe. going 2 b..."

She twitched her head with her upper neck and opened Saphira's unread text.

"Eragon ran 2 Garrows. Fírn and me r getting him"

"Kk," Arya replied. She scooted under the covers, pulled a green blanket between her arm and her side and turned her torso to the right, stretching her arm to set the Android by the vase. Rubbing her eyes, she relaxed her back against the sheets.

 _What is that boy doing?_ She knew the emptiness of the house would hurt him. Then again, he would have to face it eventually to manage the estate, but Roran would be with him. She remembered growing up without a father, but unlike Eragon, she grieved the loss of what she lacked, not what she had once possessed.

She huffed, feeling it selfish of him to grieve. _At least he_ had _a father. He got t'be raised by a loving fam'ly._

Then she grieved for Fäolin, who had always supported her. He was the one leg of her stool, and it had collapsed. _I feel nothing_ , she told herself. _I do not feel pain._ She repeated the exercise until she could ignore her emotions, but insomnia still lingered, so she examined the ceiling.

[Eragon]

It was all gone: his house, his childhood—all of it—gone. Only ashes and rubble remained as the firemen sifted through the wreck, wetting away the sparks amongst the ruins. He sat on his shins, his hands on his lap. He felt... hollow. A major part of him had burned tonight, and with it, his brain's emotional capability. He knew he'd feel again—he had with Garrow.

He realized that he now owned nothing. Garrow had left the will inside his room, refusing to deal with lawyers and establish a trust fund. He chuckled—a painful experience without feeling humor.

A large hand warmed his shoulder.

"Is that...?" Saphira whispered.

"Yep. I guess that makes me'n Roran th'proud owners'f nothing."

"Eragon, there's a couch't my apartment. D'ya needa placeta chill f'r th'night?" offered Fírnen.

"Mm."

"I'll tex' Brom," Saphira said, her thumbs already assaulting the touchscreen.

Eragon, rising, pushed on his thin upper leg and swept the ash off his jeans. On the way to the car, the streetlight revealed a charcoal coating on his palms. A wave of emotion blurted like a solar flare, and he wept from the pain. Saphira wrapped her arms around his skinny form, curving her chin over his greasy, unkempt hair.

"Shh. It's alright, little one," she cooed.

* * *

[Murtagh]

After a week of a non-annoying Eragon, the guy had finally resumed his routine asking of questions, much to Brom's annoyance (and therefore Murtagh's amusement).

Murtagh sensed Brom's hovering, but he couldn't hear through the headgear. To his right, Thorn undoubtedly aimed for any instantly lethal spots on the paper silhouette of the target. To his left, Nasuada—who had demanded to train with the Varden—lowered her revolver, holding the unloaded weapon by the barrel, and handed it to Brom, smirking at her results.

To Murtagh's surprise, all six shots had landed within an area of three square inches. The chick wasn't perfect, but her skill certainly could drop an assailant. When she cleared her throat, Murtagh realized he'd been staring. He shrugged, pointed his firearm at the target's head and launched his remaining eight bullets.

He flipped the safety on, held the button to let the slide out and twirled the gun twice along the inside of the trigger guard. He turned to leave, but Brom pointed to the discarded mag and crossed his arms.

Before Murtagh could rebel, Thorn's hand turned him around by the shoulder. Murtagh looked up at the downcast eyes and consented to Brom's directions. Upon standing from his crouched position, he snorted at the approaching target in front of Thorn. The partner had created a smiley-face with bullet holes.

[Eragon]

He gripped the gun, telling his arms to raise it. They didn't. He screamed at his mind to aim. He couldn't. Every time he looked at the target, he saw Garrow's face. He could not, in his own morality, take another life—even a representation of one. For if he were to kill a man he knew not, would he not be killing someone to a child what Garrow had been for him?

He pictured the faces of the men who had killed Miss Hess. He fired once, twice. He continued to jam the trigger, only ceasing when he realized he'd already used his final rounds. He pushed a button, and the sheet slid forward, covered in holes like a cheese grater.

He blinked, but when his eyes opened, he only saw Garrow's bloodied face. He stopped breathing, dropped the gun and stumbled backwards. Saphira, ever-consoling, caught him by the arms.

Arya glanced at him from concern, and he relaxed. Saphira pushed him up. He exited the firing range and slid the headgear off, the door groaning shut.

"Little one," Saphira spoke, using her trademark nickname. "What's up?"

"You already know."

She nodded. Eragon surveyed the room, though what for, he knew not. His neck froze when he glimpsed Arya. Her right thumb slid across her screen, but seized. He noticed her eyes, the color of thriving grass, stop moving. He caught emotion, but Eragon couldn't surpass the shock in time to decipher the encryption.

 _And that's what she is. A giant, fuckin' encryption._

Fírnen tapped her shoulder, and she faced him with defiance. The two agents bickered, gestures as loud as their voices.

Saphira tapped the back of Eragon's head with her palm. "Dude. She's way outta y'r league. Give it up."

He opened his mouth to retort but failed to speak.

"Hey, who plan'ed th'venus flytrap?" Thorn joked.

Brom pulled Eragon to the corner. "You okay?"

"I'm fine, d—Brom." Eragon flinched. Not only had he nearly called Brom his father, but the term fit their relationship. The old man furrowed his eyebrows. After one second, he relaxed them with a shrug.

"'Kay ev'rybody!" Brom shouted. "Le'z go wrestle 'n th'basement!"

Fírnen groaned but joined the rest of the group. Eragon trailed the team out the door, positioned behind Arya. When the hall widened, he trudged adjacently to Arya, matching her silence.

[Arya]

Despite the kid's infatuation, Arya found him to be good company. He didn't speak, he didn't stare at anything except the ground, and best of all, he didn't even acknowledge her.

 _He'd make a neat friend._

Unfortunately, her version of a pleasant conversation didn't last.

"Whokay!" Brom chanted. "Saphira, you take Fírnen, 'cause despite 'is arm, you won't 'esitate t'beat the shit out'f'm. Arya, Eragon'll act'lly lis'n t'ya, and Murtagh 'n' Thorn… 'Nough said. Begin."

Eragon haphazardly flicked his dominant knuckle at her. She grabbed his fist, pulled it around him, turned and put him in a headlock.

"GG!" Thorn yelled.

"Ar...a..."

She released the boy, and he dropped, rubbing his now-red neck. When he reestablished his composure, Saphira began to offer constructive criticism:

"Eragon, you punch lika girl."

"Really? 'Cause you—"

"Ya might not wanna finish that statement," Arya warned. "Now pull y'r arms t'th' side." He did so, but didn't point his fists outward. "I meant bend your elbows too, y'doofus."

"Like this?"

"Good. Now swing with y'r hips."

Over the next hour, Arya instructed Eragon on how to brawl, bombarded by unrelenting waves of curiousity.

"'Ey Brom?" she called. "Fírnen 'nd I got some cases t'solve."

"Oh no, ya don't! They've all b'n reassigned!"

"What?!" Arya shouted, storming out of the room. She peered from the opened doorway, vowing, "I'll be damned 'f a single case goes unsolved!"

"She's a bit...dutiful," Fírnen explained. "'Nd Thorn? Don'tch you daresay 'I said doody.'"

"Since y'all're busy," Eragon suggested, "I'll go find 'er." He bounded out of the room before anyone could respond, determined to get Arya to talk.

He voyaged to Arya's office, peeking inside through to overlapping bullet holes. Upon seeing her bundled in a corner and rubbing her temples, Eragon knocked.

"Who is it?" her voice, falsely stable, called.

"Eragon," he responded.

"I wanna be alone."

He shrugged before remembering that Arya couldn't see him. "I guess I'll just wait by y'r door, then."

He heard an angry sigh, and the door handle turned. Eragon, having been leaning against it, stumbled to rebalance himself. Arya let him fall.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"I try," Arya said, rolling her eyes.

"So what's—"

Arya put a finger to his lips. "I never said we'd talk." She to the corner, and the paper she slouched against had crinkled. He slumped next to her, leaving two feet between them.

He witnessed an interaction with her phone identical to the previous one.

"Whatchya doin'?" Eragon inquired.

"Hmm?"

"Y'r phone. Ya keep lookin' at something, an' then ya get this look on y'r face."

To his surprise, Arya handed him the Android. "Damn. I know y're cold, but not respondin' f'r two years? Poor guy." The paper crinkled again, and he realized she'd tensed. "No? Who was this... Fay—Fow—"

"Fäolin," she whispered.

"He y'r boyfriend?" Eragon wondered, noticing how Arya had been addressed in the message.

"Was."

When she didn't continue, he realized he needed to press her. "Rough breakup?"

"He got murdered."

Eragon choked on spit. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't—"

"It's alright... I just..." She froze.

"Talking helps," he suggested.

The woman sniffled. "You wouldn' understand."

"Then let me."

"No!" she snapped. She inhaled, closed her mouth then exhaled. "I'm fine now, Eragon. It was just a momen' of weakness."

"If you say so," he aquiesced. Knowing the conversation had ended, he returned the cellphone before exiting the room.

[Arya]

When she heard the door slide into its frame, she cursed. _Why did I open up? I tried so hard to forget..._ The boy, no, Eragon, couldn't possibly fathom what he had just done. After Fäolin had died, Durza kidnapped her. She shivered.

She'd needed to be strong, to keep anything that the bastard could have used to break her away from conscious thought. She had ceased to feel. She had lacked the time to grieve after her captivity, and now this boy, this child, had unleashed a torrent of trauma, trauma she had so desperately tried to forget.

She was broken; Eragon had shattered her heart of glass.

 _When did I become so fragile?_

 **Oh, and for the next ten chapters, the titles will be a different kind of wordplay: metaphors/analogies.**

 **It occurs to me how I incorrectly put a comma before the words "before" and "then." Don't do this; it's wrong. I do it because, in my opinion, the pause it creates in the brain adds to the flow of the sentence. Unless you're writing poetry, do as I say, not as I do. I'll have to go back and fix them sometime, but meh.**

 **Like it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews below!**


	11. 11 – Flash Floods

**'Nother suttle POV switch. Should I stop doing 'em? Also, I broke another grammar rule and made "cartire" a word, because honestly, I think it works better without the pause from the space between the two words.**

 **I wanna say I'm starting to make Eragon grow up because Arya never loved Eragon from Carvahall, but honestly, he started growing up when Garrow died.**

[Arya & Izlanadí]

Izlanadí caught her daughter's fleeting form in the parking lot. She allowed her hopefulness to enter her voice. "Arya?"

She whirled about, inwardly cursing. She did _not_ want to converse with her mother. "Yes, Miss Dröttning?" she responded. She addressed her formally in spite, a feat worthy of bards.

"I was hoping we could talk like we used to," Izlandí drawled, twinging the words with disappointment to fill her daughter with guilt.

It didn't work.

"' _Used to_ '? ' _Used_ to' _?!_ What, when I was three?"

"I know things 'aven't been th'same since Evandar died—"

"You forget, _Izlanadí_ , that while I may barely remember Dad, I remember enough t'know that he w's moruva dad th'n you've been a mother," Arya spat.

Izlanadí's pleading tone was sincere now, but she's faked it too much for Arya to recognize. "Please… You're my daughter..."

"Like hell I am. You've never been a mom t'me."

"I just want you t'love me," Izlanadí croaked.

"You can't force love! Didya even get that with Dad?"

"I—"

"You didn't! He already loved you, 'nd you manipulated 'im! Jus' like me." She needed to leave. Her emotions were bleeding. She mounted her motorcycle, and not even stopping to put on her helmet, she sped out of the lot.

[Eragon]

He didn't _mean_ to eavesdrop. Well, he _did_ , but he didn't _plan_ to. When Izlanadí had turned to him, he panicked. Not as much as her, however.

"How much did you see?"

"Not all'f it. Jus—yeah. Pretty much all'f it."

"I didn't want anyone t'hafta see that," Arya's mother apologized.

"Didge 'ou really do that t'her?" Eragon demanded. "Be honest."

"Evandar was always th'better parent."

The prospect of such a manipulative relationship nauseated him. "Y're a bitch t'her, y'know that?"

"Young man, you should treatch y'r superi'rs with respect!" she scorned.

"If ya can't treat Arya with respect, why should I treatch you with it?"

This seem to appall her further, however. "I could 'ave you fired!"

"I'm not technic'ly hired, r'member? Just like you didn't technic'ly be a mom t'Arya."

Her twitch satisfied his rage. The woman filled her lung capacity, then drained it. Eragon prepared to improvise a retort to whatever scolding he would receive, but instead of bickering, Izlanadí uttered, "You really do love 'er, don' you?"

She turned, opened the white door of her white Toyota Prius and pulled it closed.

He pondered the statement. He didn't actually _love_ Arya, did he?

 _I mean, I 'ave a thing f'r her, 'cause she is pretty hot, but,_ love _her?_

He shook his head. No, he had a crush on her. He would, after all, have done the same thing for anybody else; such was his nature.

He never considered the consequences of what he'd just done.

* * *

[Arya]

"What the fucking hell were ya tryna do?"

"Arya?" Eragon jumped, whirled around and blinked at her twice.

"Well?"

"What—"

"Calling my mother a bitch?" Inwardly, she prided his confidence, but at the same time, his disrespect may have doomed the Varden. They needed officials from government agencies to support funding—badly.

"Oh, that. I was kinda hoping you wouldn' find out…"

She growled/sighed. "Damnit! Do you 'ave _any_ clue what you've done?"

"Well," he paused, followed by a grin. "I s'pose I jus' stood up t'y'r mother."

"No, dipshit," Brom growled behind him. "You stood up half'r funding."

"Brom, lemme talk t'my mother. I'll bring this idiot," she said, pointing to Eragon, "with me to apologize."

Eragon flushed.

Now _he's embarassed?_

"Eragon, y're eighteen, right?"

"Yeah, why?" he drawled.

"Good." She slapped his cheek.

"Arya, what the hell?"

"You deserved it," Saphira pointed out.

"Sa-aph!"

"Oh, and Saphira? I'll need someone t'babysit when we get there. Might as well catch up on s'me things."

"You didn' needa give me permission, Arya."

"Yeah, but you'll need Fírnen's," Arya countered, pointing to him.

"Who says I do?"

"Saph!" Fírnen protested.

"What? I don't!" she insisted.

"I give 'er permission to do whatever shenanigans she's gonna do," Fírnen spoke, earning a nudge from his mate. He grinned when Saphira glared at him.

"So how long will we be gone?" Saphira half-shouted.

"Couple weeks, maybe," Arya suggested.

"Wha—I didn' agreeda that!"

"You did," Saphira declared.

Arya turned towards the hallway, leaving them to bicker. She needed to retrieve her things from her office, as the contractors would be repainting today.

* * *

[Not Specified]

Saphira, who had proved more stubborn than Arya, currently drove Fírnen's car. She had borrowed from him after prolonged banter, much to Eragon's annoyance. However, it turned out that Saphira surpassed Arya in driving despite not having a license. Of course, Saphira had ensured Arya's ignorance to such a fact, lest she make a reasonable argument to drive in her stead.

In fact, both Eragon and Arya marveled at the girl's mastered driving technique, but also at her road rage.

Saphira, possessing the self-worth that she did, honked at any car that switched without signal or curtesy. She currently drove sixty miles per hour (~97 kph), five units above the speed limit, tailgated but a bronze Chevy truck.

"Fucktard!" she shouted. "I can't go any faster!"

"Saph, Y'know they can't hear you, right?" Eragon checked.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, but c'mon! It's not _my_ fault th'guy's an idiot."

Eragon failed at stifling a smile to Arya, whose lip twitched.

"If 'e thinks I'm slow, I s'pose we'll jus' correct'm," Saphira foreshadowed.

"Saphira, what're you gonna—"

"I do what I wan', little one!" she snapped.

Arya smirked, an action she hid by hunching over her phone. She stopped at Fäolin's name again, desiring to read the message. But she didn't, for if she accepted his death, would it not mean that she didn't care? If she moved on, then did she ever love him? She locked the Android, forcing it into her back pocket, and adjusted the the air current of her passenger-side vent.

The vehicle lurched, slowing to twenty miles per hour (~32 kph), and the tailgating cartires screeched in friction, accompanied by a chorus of honks.

Much to the trio's relief, the rushing driver (a woman, Eragon saw) bypassed their vehicle and sped forward to pressure the next vehicle.

Saphira resumed her earlier pace.

"Wow," Eragon whistled. "'Nd I thought _Arya_ was a rude driver."

" _Hey_!" the girls snapped.

"Sorry?" Eragon croaked.

"Y'know," Saphira offered. "If ya don' like my driving, we c'd always leave you on the highway. Or we c'd strap you t'th'roof. Ooh! Or we c'd—"

"Saphira, I think 'e gets it," Arya observed. Looking at the rear-view mirror, Saphira snickered her agreement; he appeared ready to jump out the door mid-traffic. Then she realized something.

"Arya, you've never been this human! What gives?"

Arya tensed. _No, I'm not opening up._ "I'm a'ways like this," she denied.

"Arya, you smiled," Eragon emphasized.

"I c'n smile, can't I?"

"Apparently," Saphira snorted.

"I've smiled b'fore!" Arya protested. "Just ask Fírnen."

"Arya, I'm sleeping with 'im, 'nd 'e's _never_ mentioned you showin' emotion. _Ev-er_."

"Saph, do you two even _talk_ about Arya when—y'know..."

"Eragon," Arya sighed. "We're adults here. You can say th'word 'sex.'" It appeared she had remained the only passenger without a hint of pink on her face.

In attempt to reroute the humiliation, Saphira coughed. "So, if we as'ed Fírnen right now, he'd tell us y're a flamboyant, joyful person who smiles ev'ryday?"

"It's been awhile," Arya admitted.

"How long is 'awhile?'" Eragon persisted.

She frowned. "I think it was right b'fore—" _Fäolin died._ The words had crashed on the journey from her brain to her mouth. She trembled in reminiscence.

 _"Babe! C'mon!" Fäolin pleaded._

 _"It's freezing out there!"_

 _"I'll keep ya warm in my arms. Besides, it'll only take a minute."_

 _"I guess I could..." She attempted to sound hesitant, but her expression countered the intended effect._

 _"So y're comin'?"_

 _"I could be persuaded," she replied._

 _Sighing, Fäolin jogged up the steps to the entrance of the apartment complex, embraced her and pecked her forehead. "Have I ever toldge 'ou how cute you are?"_

 _Arya bore into his eyes, leaning in closer. "No, I have not," she recited despite being told every day._

 _Fäolin rested his chin on her hair. "You are th'most adorable person t'ever walk the earth. Y're the single most beautiful woman on this planet."_

 _Arya nuzzled his nose with her own. "And?"_

 _"And I love you," he whispered._

 _She cut the distance between their lips, but she ended the contact after a second. "I guess I c'n come. But may I ask what this's about?"_

 _"It's a su'prise," Fäolin informed her._

 _"Please?"_

 _He sighed. "Fine. Remember howya said ya liked those flowers?"_

 _"Mhmmm."_

 _"Well—"_

"Arya!" Saphira and Eragon shouted.

She started, and Eragon flinched when her scalp hit the ceiling. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"You spaced out," Saphira clarified.

"I'm fine," Arya rasped.

Eragon refused to accept it. "Arya—"

"I'm fine!" she yelled.

Saphira's eyes slid towards Eragon's and back.

 _What's up with Arya?_ the partners wondered.

 **What's up indeed? Well, I'm going to explain some stuff next paragraph, but first I'll tell you that I remember seeing a similar interaction somewhere to the memory, but I don't remember where. Don't sue me.**

 **Now let's talk about Arya. Well, she's who we know her to be due to her trauma from Durza. Because she the psychological warfare established Durza's superiority, she hid all emotions by instinct to prevent a show of weakness. She was in an environment where the strong preyed upon the weak, and so she hid her weaknesses. The problem is that she hasn't recovered from all the trauma, so she still hides whatever she feels.**

 **So why the sudden breakthrough? Arya forced her psyche to process the loss of Fäolin, which was a significant thing. Why? Well, she's been hollow for so long that she forget how to feel. Now that Eragon has forced her to do so again, it's all going to flood.**

 **It's also why she was so informal in Pendulum. She accepted her feelings at the end of Inheritance, and it's caused her to struggle with a broken shell. She no longer feels safe. She doesn't think she's secure. Feeling for her, be it being happy or in love, is bad. Her psyche has deemed it too dangerous, because while she isn't in that situation anymore, the brain doesn't quite wake up unless you force it to.**

 **Like it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews below!**


	12. 12 – Like Forgiving a Relapse

**I have to respond to the guest reviews here, so I may not respond in the future. But yeah, I'll probably edit the dialogue sometime (probably?) soon.**

 **There are some things people don't realize about California, and I'll explain them for reference. However, if you don't care about that, you can skip to the chapter.**

 **California is HUGE. You can drive for twelve hours straight (it varies) and still be in the state. Los Angeles (which is not the capital) can be a ten hour drive from Sacramento (which is the capital). I'll poke fun at more stereotypes on the story, but I just thought you would need scale. California is roughly 80% the size of France.**

 **Disclaimer: If Paolini didn't need one to write Star Wars again, I don't need one here.**

[Eragon]

"Holy crap..." He gaped at the city, which, unlike Carvahall, was a true city. The large buildings curved at some sides, covered by black windows. Countless stories rose to hundreds of feet, and skyscrapers, as the word would imply, scraped the sky.

Smog formed a fog-like sky, people walked faster than cars drove, and lights and signs flashed about his view.

"Welcome to the county of Du Weldenvarden and its crown jewel: Ellesméra," Arya beamed.

"It's pretty. I mean, I'm definitely hotter, but it's pretty," Saphira remarked.

Eragon rolled his eyes, but Arya, instead of raising an eyebrow, shrugged. He wondered why, but when Saphira reprimanded him, he realized how foolish angering someone as physically built as Saphira was.

"Little one, do ya think I'm not pretty?"

"No! I never said that! It's a different kind of beauty—"

"Hmmmm?"

"You're the most beautiful unofficial agent in all of Algaësia." And she was, considering she and himself were the only ones of that status in their home county. He did not, however, rank her beauty above Arya's. And who could blame him? The chick was hot.

"That's better," Saphira informed Eragon.

Eragon sighed in relief.

"In one hundred feet. Turn right on Oakwood Avenue," a male British Siri directed.

"The hell?" Saphira exclaimed. "That was four in'ersections ago!"

"I could give you directions, y'know," Arya announced.

Not this again, Eragon inwardly groaned.

Saphira, a woman of profound pride, refused.

"In eight hundred feet. Turn left onto Pine Boulevard."

"That's an exit to the fifty..."

"Make a U-Turn."

"Where does it even think we are? Goddamn GPS!"

"Well," Eragon joked, "you can't blame 'im. He's used to drivin' on the left side of the road!"

His partner guffawed, and to his surprise, Arya even smiled, albeit very briefly.

After another twenty minutes of meandering, Eragon convinced Saphira to let Arya direct her properly. They arrived in ten.

Saphira pulled into the handicap space nearest to the entrance. Surprisingly, it wasn't labeled 'compact.' Much to Eragon's disapproval, she retrieved Fírnen's placard and hooked it onto the bar attaching the rear-view mirror to the roof.

"Saph!" Eragon protested.

"What? We got a sign."

"Yeah, but we're not injured!"

"So?"

"Well, what if someone else needs it?"

"They'll be late to work, so what's the problem with it taking a little longer to get inside?" She loped to the guard outside the sliding, glass, automatic double-doors, and Eragon, grumbling random sounds, followed.

The guard, a middle-aged man, held his right hand out in front of Saphira. "If you wanna walk into a gover'ment building, you can't just waltz by security."

"Gilderien," Arya greeted, nodding her head. She slipped a badge from belt.

"Agent Dröttning," he replied. "Go on in."

"Bu—Why does _she_ get to go?" Eragon whined.

"You two needa be searched."

"Like a pat-down? Saphira is _not_ —"

"It's fine, little one," Saphira reassured.

After six minutes of tedious protocol, 'Gilderien' finally let them in. His first observation was, by habit alone, Arya. The second was the man conversing with her. Unlike Arya, he wasn't tall, but he certainly wasn't short, either. A lion stretched over each side of his face, and a wolf wrapped around his arms, stopping at the wrist, jaws open as if to devour his hands. The rest of the man's body remained concealed by clothing, but Eragon presumed more tattoos did as well.

The females of the room, save Arya and Saphira, peered at Arya's friend (Eragon refused to consider them being more) in what they assumed to be a subtle manner.

"Even a blind person could see past it," Saphira muttered.

In response, Eragon stifled a scoff, but the sound exited through his nose as a sharp sniff.

Arya coughed. "This's Blödhgarm. He'll show you around."

Eragon extended his right hand towards Blödhgarm's. After proper introduction, he stuffed it into his pockets, providing warmth after exposure to the cool skin. Saphira then nodded, and Eragon feared Blödhgarm would take offense, but the man reciprocated the greeting.

"I've got things t'do," Arya announced. "Make sure you bring 'em back here 'round six. My mother—" she winced at the word "—wants to meet the three'f us at Denny's."

She briefly glowered at Eragonbefore pressing a triangular button on the wall. Two beeps—a higher note followed by a lower one—chimed, and the dented elevator doors of silver slid open. She stomped in; grabbed the metal bar behind her, leaning into it; and tapped her foot until the doors shut.

"Excuse me—Blödhgarm, was it?—, but I need to use the bathroom."

Eragon elevated his eyebrows, nonverbally asking, 'Did you just say 'excuse me?''

His partner rolled her eyes.

"I can take ya there. He needa go to?" the guide queried, twitching his head towards Eragon.

Instead of declining as he'd originally intended, Eragon felt a tug at his bladder. "Yes please."

* * *

[Saphira]

"So where do we go first?" Eragon blurted.

"Eragon, couldn't you've asked before I got comf'trble on the bench?" Saphira snapped, pushing her friend in the shoulder.

"Sa _phira_!" Eragon whined.

Blödhgarm smiled at them.

"Seriously, though," she regressed*. "Where're we goin'?"

"Oh, right. Um, about that. You don't act'ly have the clearance to be outside of the lobby or restrooms."

Eragon groaned next to her and banged the back of his head against the wall. "Can you at least tell us about the place?"

"Little one, if they don't want you t'see stuff, they certainly won't tell you about it!"

He began to fidget, and after watching him for a few seconds, Saphira thought, _Damn. He's makin'_ me _bored._ "Blödhgarm?" she began. "Is there free WiFi here?"

"If ya give me your phone, I can en'er in the password."

"Eragon, hand me your phone."

"What? Why?"

"Because you're bored as fuck, and you need this," she answered.

He sighed a breathy growl, but he obeyed.

[Arya]

Ellesméra, the beautiful city. Ellesméra, home of the FBI. Ellesméra, where Arya's mother made life hell.

The elevator dinged.

The opening of the doors revealed a large room filled with desks and cubicles. Arya veered right. She continued in a traipse, but corrected the movement, filling it with pride.

 _Just keep your held up high_ , Arya reminded herself. _'S what Dad used to say._

She opened the door.

"Arya!" her mother chirped. "This is a pleasant surprise! I didn't know you'd come!"

 _Yes you did._ "Indeed," Arya droned.

"Look, Arya, I'm sorry; I really am, but I can't help it if you bottle ev'rything up!"

 _"Sometimes you hafta take the high road,"_ her father used to say.

 _But do I really wanna be like him? To be a welcome mat for Mom?_

"I don't wanna talk about this," Arya said.

"You always say that! I love you, honey! Just speak to me! I don't understand what's wrong!"

 _You never did._

 _"You've just gotta forgive others,"_ her memories spoke.

Arya struggled. _Forgive? She's not even sorry! She's never truly apologized!_

"Mother, I..."

"Speak to me," Izlanadí whispered.

She didn't want to forgive. She wanted her mother to apologize. _Then aren't I just like her?_ Arya choked on spit. She desired not to be trampled upon like her father, but she refused to be the horse. _I am not my mother,_ she decided.

She approached her mother with a hug. Izlanadí stopped, confused, but squeezed her back. Arya felt the tears dampen the cloth on her shoulder.

"I love you," Izlanadí whispered.

Weeping, Arya remained silent.

 **Yay! Finally! Their relationship is getting fixed! I needed to rush that part (you'll see next chapter).**

 ***I've now invented a new use for regress. I used it as the compliment form of digress. English needs a word for resuming the topic of conversation, and that one could technically work. I know, I know. I'm reinventing English.**

 **Shoutout to fdquesada for reviewing and PMing me until I continued the chapter. I know what the next chapter is, and I'll give you a hint: prepare the feels!**


	13. 13 – Parental Guidance

**This is what I mean by "the feels." Grab a tissue box if you tend go cry at character death. Shoutout to fdquesada for the supportive PM's and reviews.**

 **Religion will be a bit of a theme, but I'm not gonna shove it down anyone's throats. They are going through hard times or have been already. They will, especially the younger characters, be questioning their faith. It's their struggle, not yours, so don't flame me. If ya do, then you either haven't read the story, or because I said the word "God," you think I'm preaching a sermon. Either way, your ignorance is your problem. Don't make it mine.**

 **Disclaimer: It's kinda self-explanatory.**

[Saphira]

Saphira smirked. Eragon had pushed both sets of glass doors open and pressed against them until she and Arya passed.

"You're so polite," she teased.

"That a _bad thing?_ " Eragon questioned.

"Just an observation," Saphira dismissed.

"Greetings, Arya, Agent Cadocson," Izlanadí greeted. "And this's Miss... B-dgart...Skuller?"

Saphira huffed. "Nobody's ever gotten it right. Jus' call me Saphira."

Izlanadí stepped back. "But it's so... informal!" she protested. "A last name represents your family!"

 _Family?_ Saphira mentally scoffed. "Frankly, I don' care what you call me. It could be 'Agent Bitch' for all I care." Eragon and the Dröttnings choked, but she alluded to not caring by ignoring her statement's effect. "Long as I can tell what you're act'lly sayin', I have no pref'rence."

"Very well," Arya's mother drawled.

Eragon rocked on his heels, arms on his back. He glanced at Saphira, then the woman to her right by a sign.

"We have a table t'wards the back for whoever's up next," a young girl chirped. Saphira let the others respond, for if she allowed herself to speak, she would likely call the waitress a chipmunk because of the high-pitched voice.

She led them to a polished wooden table. Four chairs had been tucked underneath the top, fit with beige chusions. Saphira slid the nearest one back before Eragon could do it for her, stepped in front of it and slumped backwards.

Arya and Izlanadí assumed positions on the opposite side of the table, and Eragon took the adjacent seat to Saphira's left. While the three others perused through the menu, she skimmed the headings, choosing the first item that included steak.

The other two females engaged in boring, yet animated, conversation regarding sides, salads and stuff Saphira didn't listen long enough to comprehend. She instead surveyed the occupants of the room, of which there were many. One particularly large counter by the window, she observed, wore yellow bandannas and ruffled, casual attire. Due to the lack of females amongst the group, Saphira assumed they were having a guys' night out.

One of them stared at Arya for an approximate minute, but the adjacent companion tapped his shoulder. When the stranger turned away, Eragon sighed. Saphira watched his hands, which had been strained white, return to their initial tone.

"You guys ready t'order?" Chipmunk squeaked.

After a few seconds of the group's exchanging of confirmations with glances, Arya replied with a yes. The Dröttnings ordered Caesar salads, Eragon requested a grilled cheese sandwich and Saphira demanded tri-tip with barbecue sauce.

A black van with tinted windows shrieked, its tires drifting in front of the windows. The sliding doors were pulled open, revealing a heavily armored man with a minigun. The bandanna-people, whom Saphira realized had dressed in the Urgals' uniforms, sprung to the ground, drawing handguns and knives.

[Not Specified]

"Eragon!" Saphira shouted. "Chipmunk's hit!"

Arya kicked the chairs aside, yanked on the table's legs and used the top as a shield. "Guys! Back up! This ain't gonna hold for long!"

"Little one, can you help 'er?" Agent Saphira asked.

"Hit the fem'ral artery," Arya's— _Boyfriend, maybe?—_ rasped. _"_ It's like the fuckin' Red Sea ovehere!"

"Say it in English!" the girl hissed.

"If she doesn't die'f shock first, she'll bleed out in minutes," he clarified.

Arya let a breathy growl. "We don't have time for this!" She pulled Eragon away from the half-dead waitress, trusting her mother and Saphira to follow.

Izlanadí unlocked the safety of her handgun when the minigun was pointed towards her daughter. "Get t'cover!" she ordered.

"But, Mom!" Arya protested.

She ignored the liaison, pushed a small button on her Bluetooth headset and requested reinforcements, occupying any would-be assailants with bullets. The armor of the heavy gunner absorbed the shock, and reality blurred at the searing pain as countless rounds tore her body apart. An immeasurably small period of time later, the discomfort ceased.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit," Arya chanted. "Please don't—SHIT!" Her mother's body erupted into geysers of blood, a traveling up from her abdomen and across her face. She attempted to deny her emotional response, a feat that proved impossible.

"Holy God!" Eragon exclaimed. Apparently, Arya was not a robot. If her acting like a human being resulted in the current situation, then Eragon understood why. Anyone wearing a bandanna dropped within a span of five seconds, virtreous fluid and blood oozing from their punctured eyeballs and skulls.

As Arya dove beside Eragon and Saphira, the boy shook with a newfound sensation: fear, not for losing at a training brawl, not for shooting a gun, but for her. She pressed her back to the wall and cursed about not bringing any spare magazines.

Saphira retrieved a cane from the corpse of an elderly African American man. She stretched her right arm towards a firearm, using the tip to slide it towards the trio.

"No, Saph!" Eragon warned. The gun triggered, and the recoil spun it past the final inches of distance to its destination. "Damnit! Y'know how easy those things go off?"

She shrugged; "No one got hit."

"Saphira, can I see that? I think I can handle the kickback," Arya spoke.

"Yeah."

The liaison enabled the safety and retrieved the weapon. She peered around the corner to see the doors of the suspects' vehicle shut. Pointing the muzzle at the tires, her arms protested the jerking of each shot. She lowered the pistol.

"Wasted enough ammo from that piece of shit?" Saphira inquired. "'Cause I'm pretty sure the side'f the barn was a few feet to the left."

"An assault rifle's more accurate," Arya complained. "Same recoil, though."

Backup arrived a half-minute later.

"'Kay guys," Saphira rasped. "Let's leave this carnival."

The two girls shuffled towards the exit, before stopping. "You comin', Eragon?" Arya beckoned.

"Little one?"

[Eragon]

He just watched all those people die. He should have tried to help the nice waitress, to at least put pressure on the wound. The carcass of a little boy no older than eleven oozed blood onto the ground. An old man's lifeless body lay slumped against a wall. And the people that Arya shot...

 _They were all my age or younger._

He remembered Miss Hess, he rewatched Ajihad's murder, he relived Garrow's death... The bloodied faces condemned him for failure.

The warmth of Saphira's well-toned body forced a subconsciously-withheld breath out. His eyelids pinched close, pushing out the water that clung to the corners of his eyes. Tears drenched his shirt at a faster rate than they should have, and when he let himself look upon the world again, Eragon gasped at the blood from Saphira's chest.

"Saph, you're bleeding," Arya announced.

"Probably just the glass," she dismissed.

"No, she means you're _bleeding_."

"It can't be that—" she noticed the red puddle on her chest. "—bad..."

"Get me a paramedic!" Eragon shouted.

"I'll fetch one," Arya volunteered.

"Have 'im make sure you're okay first," he told her.

"I'm fine. Saphira's the one whose hurt."

"Yeah, but she wouldn't've realized it 'cause'f all the adrenaline," he pointed out.

"I'll be fine," she insisted.

"Arya, please! If you were hurt, I—" he sighed, unable to find the rest of the sentence.

"You probably should listen to'm. They're gonna be worried, and I think it'd be best if you told them about—"

"Yeah, okay." Arya interjected, already leaving.

* * *

Eragon slouched in the plastic chairs of the emergency room, forehead resting on the folded hands in his lap, eyes closed.

 _Please don't let her die. If you kill her..._ He chuckled dryly. Who was he talking to? Death itself? Garrow?

 _God?_

No answer.

 _God if you're real... Just help her. Please._

"Hey," Arya greeted next to him. He opened his eyes, looked to his right, finding an empty seat, then looked to his left, where she sat.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Fírnen's on his way. How's it going?"

"They won't tell me anything. She could be dying, for all I know!" Eragon felt the need to yell at whatever cruel person had decided to keep him on, as the nurses had told him, "a need-to-know basis."

"I was askin' about you," Arya clarified.

"Can we just call it fine 'nd leave it alone?"

She shrugged.

"Who'm I kiddin'? I feel like shit. Pro'lly look it, too." _Besides, she told me some a her stuff._

A hand chilled his shoulder.

"No, you don't."

"Thanks," he mumbled. "...Wait! Did you just—"

"Nope."

"Oh," he fussed.

A kid in the corner hurled into a bucket, and a man moved to the seat to Eragon's right, as the room held no other vacancies.

"You guys heard anything yet?" the man inquired.

"No," Eragon answered. _Wait, I know that voice!_ "Roran?!"

"Eragon? Why the hell're you covered in blood'n dirt?"

"I—" Flashbacks shut him down. "I just—we—to-day." He couldn't think, couldn't form a complete sentence. Words blipped in his mind between the deaths. Arya squeezed his shoulder, and he stared at her, the one thing he could focus on in his current state.

[Arya]

"It's been a rough day," Arya explained. "But nevermind that. Why're you here?"

"Katrina's in labor."

"What? When—How—?"

"Why the hell aren't you in there?" Arya demanded.

"We're not married, so they won't let me in."

"But—What? You're...They...Have...Let you in." Arya wrapped an arm around Eragon, plucking a fuzzer from his hair.

"So, are you two...?" Roran intimated.

"No!"

"We're.. We're just...not..."

"Sorry," he said.

After a two-second lull, Arya wondered, "You waitin' on the gender?"

"Nah. We wan'ed to know whadda get for the baby in advance. It's a girl, case you're wond'rin'."

"What... Name?"

Arya pressed closer to her friend. She had only ever felt like this for Fírnen and Fäolin, but she hated to see him suffer.

"Ismira," Roran breathed.

"I'm... I'm a..."

"Yeah. You're 'n uncle."

"Mister Cadocson?" a deep, male, hoarse voice called. "'S gonna be a coupla days. Might wanna go home."

"What's wrong with 'er? Can I see 'er?"

"No. Her legal guardian's in there, and he refuses to let—"

"Sloan!" Roran growled. "Outta my way!" he ordered the nurse.

"Sir, we can't let you back there!"

Whatever Eragon's cousin whispered into the poor messenger's ear must have been inhumane, for the man relented.

"Arya?" Eragon addressed.

Arya returned to staring at her traumatized friend.

"Ssh. It's okay."

"Thanks. I... Owe you."

"Consider us even now," Arya replied.

[Eragon]

He had nearly recovered by now, and he realized that Arya's mother had been pelted by bullets a few hours prior.

"Arya, how're you holdin' up since—" He gagged to stop the rest of the question, for if he phrased the remaining words, he would break down again.

Astonishingly, she sniffled. For the second time, Eragon didn't just see some hot FBI chick, but he saw a human being. "We were just gettin' close again," she muttered.

Unable to find the correct words, he supported Arya with a hug. When she didn't reject him, he didn't pull away.

"I'm sorry. You dunno me that well, and I'm bein' a burden."

"Arya, I will never—ever—think of you as a burden."

He flet misery, as if the heavens themselves had just suffered. It felt like water constantly drained from his chest. _She's crying_ , he realized.

"I still needa eat dinner," Arya announced.

 _Is she insinuating that—No, I can't leave Saphira._

"You go ahead," he permitted. "I'll stay here."

"Eragon, you should eat some'mh, too."

"I'm fine," he lied.

"Look, Saphira ain't goin' anywhere in the next hour. I know this rest'rant called 'The Gilded Lily'—"

"Would you leave Fírnen?"

"I'll bring somethin' back," she caved.

* * *

The door creaked shut, and paper crinkled. "No food or drink—" the lady at the desk began, stopping when Arya turned her head towards her. "I'll make an exception. Jus' don' tell anybody."

Eragon sniffed twice. He smelled spices and—

"Is that steak?" he effervesced.

She nodded.

"Aren't you a vegetarian?"

"You aren't. Also, I dunno what kinda soda you like, so I got you Doctor Pepper."

Eragon shook his head; "We could never afford soda. Whenever we did, it was always Sprite or Sev'n Up."

She handed him the plastic-lidded paper cup and a straw. "Well?"

He aquiesced. The bubbles pricked the skin of his mouth, and the only word he could use to describe the sweet taste was 'round.' It didn't make sense, the way a perfectly curved edge could describe this sensation, but it did.

"Soooo?"

"What?"

"The drink, Eragon!"

"Oh, right. It tastes...round."

"What?" she chortled.

"You don't know what I mean?"

"Eragon, I have no clue what you're talking about!"

He blushed. "Do you have a fork anywhere?"

"Plastic silverware's in the box with your steak."

Eragon, not a nibble into his meal, decided it was the best dinner of his lifetime, for it was when he began to understand his boyish crush. _She's so much more than a hit badass_ , he mentally remarked.

"Arya," he whispered. "I see you."

She stopped crunching on her salad.

 **A bit of AxE. Before you accuse me of anything, Arya's not OOC. She's learning acceptance, which she can do since she's learned to trust Fírnen, and can already trust at all. I'm rearranging events to speed up character development.**

 **Like it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews below!**


	14. AN

**Sorry to disappoint, but we are experiencing minor turbulence in the progression of my stories. School's starting, and it's incredibly taxing. Around the time I start to forget words, I stop doing my homework. I'm on independent study, so it's basically all homework. For an entire school day.**

 **So, when you see the long pauses, don't think I'm dead, incapacitated or whatever crazy suggestions you creative internet users have come up with. A brain-dead Eagle + the back end of writer's block + ADHD = ...More writer's block, I guess?**

 **Temporary pseudo-hiatus.**


	15. 14 – Meet the Durza

**IMPORTANT: The top A/N will have announcements. Other stuff's gonna be on the bottom.**

 **Older content. Still on pseudo-hiatus.**

 **Also, I got a poll up on my profile. I'd say go check it out, but only two or three of you probably will. XD**

[Saphira]

The top of her boobs burned with irritation, so Saphira lifted her unusually heavy arm to alleviate the itch.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. You'll tear out the stitches."

"You didn't even put on some kinda cream?" she ridiculed the masculin nurse.

"Well, because of the state of the skin, we couldn't risk rubbing the sutures. Oh, and you won't be able ta bathe for fourty-eight hours."

"When'll it heal?" she inquired.

"The stitches'll d'solve in seven-to-ten days."

She grunted. _But why was I sleeping?_

"Doc?"

"Hm?"

"Couldn't I have been awake for this?"

"You don't r'member strugglin'? We had ta sedate you."

[Durza]

"Sir, it would seem Lord Barst has been successful in beheading the FBI," Durza relayed in his British accent.

"Excellent," a deep tone praised. It rippled like a disturbance in water. It flowed throughout his body, but such things did not affect Durza. "Morzan," Galbatorix addressed, his back still facing his two loyalist servants. "Any word from the Twins?"

"The funding for their project has been nearly cut. The FBI is merely a panicked chicken without its head."

Durza envied the clever wordplay, and despite his innate bitterness towards Morzan, he respected the remark.

"Do they have any replacements?" Galbatorix asked.

"Perhaps the daughter," Morzan hypothesized.

"She does seem capable. Yet again Morzan, you have proven your worth."

Durza snorted. As if that pathetic man could surpass the likes of himself.

"Have you something to add, Durza?"

"Yes. Whilst your servant here discussed obsolete trivialities, I found some...interesting news regarding this 'project.'"

"...And?"

"A special unit against us. Codename 'Varden.' There is further information, but I'd rather not disclose it in the current company."

"Morzan? Leave."

"But, sir! Surely I have proven nothing if not trustworthy!"

"I'm sorry," Durza sassed, "but it appears that your footsteps sound different than normal."

When Galbatorix didn't reprimand the psychopath, Morzan growled, but left.

"The agents on this unit consist of the younger Dröttning and her partner, a boy, and a teenaged girl. The final two people are of upmost interest." He paused, angling his head for dramatic effect.

"Continue."

"I'm sure you're aware of the Morzan boy's...traitorous tendencies."

"Get to the point," the boss demanded.

"He and his partner seem to be in the unit as well."

"I see. Thank you, Durza. I must admit this news troubles me. You think Morzan knows?"

He smiled. "I've no doubt."

"Thank you. I am glad to have the likes of you by my side."

"As long as you pay, I am happy to serve."

[Murtagh]

It'd been hours since Fírnen had departed. "Their relationship's gonna get us all killed in the field," he complained to Thorn.

"Nah. We'll be too busy dyin' from the other things ya said'd do the job," he responded, simpering.

"Alright you two," Brom interjected. The two agents faced the old man. "While nothing makes me happier'n watchin' the chit-chat—" Thorn looked back at Murtagh just long enough to mouth, ' _Bullshit_.' "—I got somethin' fer you two to do."

"Run laps?" Murtagh guessed.

"I wish," Brom lamented. "No, after all the shit that's happened, it's pretty clear we've got a mole."

"So we're goin' fishing?" Thorn laughed. "Don't we have Internal Affairs fer that crap?"

"Can I finish?" the unnofficial replacement-chief spat. "You're ex-CIA. Go get some intel!"

"That's it?" Murtagh questioned. "Just 'get some intel?'"

"Yeaaaah...?"

"No plans? No resources? No leads, no ins, no outs?" _Does he really think we could just waltz in and work it out?_

"Well, you're the spy! Go do... Spy stuff!"

"Dude, his fuckin' dad works there," Thorn criticized. "Why don't _you_ do it? You're the one who's s'pposed ta be dead, right?"

"Yeah. Y'know why? They held my wife hostage, so my partner'n me went to fetch 'er. Guess what? Both died."

Murtagh had never empathized for anyone but Thorn or Nasuada, and yet, through discovering the emotions behind Brom's madness, he experienced the foreign pity for a man whom he despised.

"We'll do it," he conceded. "Just give us time to prepare. Anything from your experience would be useful."

Thorn staggered, but Brom failed to berate him, contradicting Murtagh's expectations.

"Sit down," the former agent commanded. "It's a long tale."

* * *

[Nasuada]

"What the hell? No! In case ya guys haven' noticed, we're kinda short-staffed right now! We need you _here_!"

"Nasuada," Murtagh breathily pleaded. "It's our only shot. We need'n advantage."

"Which we won't have if ya get yourself killed!" And, though it was selfish of her, she needed Murtagh for personal reasons. He—and as a consequence, Thorn—retained the status of her only friends. They didn't know Ajihad's daughter; they knew Nasuada. Out of respect, she didn't spite the two for their former affiliations, nor did she judge Murtagh for his parentage.

She did, however, resent that the man hadn't told her himself. She only knew from overhearing fragments of conversation from her dad. Her previously-decent mood dropped inside of her, but alongside the mental subject of what she'd lost, she banished the bleeding absence of it. For the next few minutes, she forgot.

"...so I don't think we have a—are you listening?"

"Hm? Yes, sorry. As I was sayin', we don't have the funding to send you two out. We don't even have an official represen'ative to get it!"

"I never thought I'd say this, but boys, I think it's time to use yer v'cation days!"

Thorn snorted. "Dude, that's like, three days. Tops. It'd take more than a miracle to pull it off."

"And we wouldn't get paid," Murtagh added.

"There's one thing we can have you guys do," Nasuada admitted.

"Do tell," Brom said.

"Well, the case of Garrow Cadocson's murder's about to go cold."

"Eragon's dad?"

Nasuada confirmed Murtagh's query.

"Jus' don't tell Eragon," Brom bargained.

"Deal," Nasuada agreed, ignoring the boys' silent protests.

 **Enormous shoutout to Elemental Dragon Slayer for the feedback on Durza's dialogue, and another thanks to fdquesada's support. Also to Elvish for reviewing.**

 **Like it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews below!**


	16. 15 – First Day of School

**Check out the poll on my profile. I'm still dealing with some writer's block. Updates will be infrequent.**

[Not Specified]

"Are you sure it's here?" Brom checked.

Murtagh groaned. "It has to be! If Fírnen 'nd Arya didn't put it in the computer, then it's gonna be around their desks!"

Thorn drummed the desk with his fingertips. "Look, Murty—"

"Murty?!" Brom choked.

"Can it, Brom!" Murtagh snapped.

"We've already checked the papers. They didn't record it."

Murtagh slapped the papers, slamming them into a box.

"Arya's gonna flip," his partner warned. "She's hella OCD."

He grumbled.

"What was that?" asked Brom.

"I don't give a shit! Can we stop standin' around now?"

"Excuse me?"

"Brom," Thorn began, "I don't think this is the time—"

"You heard," Murtagh said.

"You disrespectful..."

Thorn slid his phone from his front pocket, unwrapped the black earbuds and jammed them into place. He opened his Imagine Dragons playlist, tapped the shuffle icon and held the button to increase the volume. After a few seconds, he began to browse through Tumblr.

[Eragon]

Ever since the night of Saphira's hospitalization, Arya had remained more distant than Eragon was accustomed to. When he talked to Saphira, who was already dealing with insurance issues at the time, she said, "Oh, little one. Are you that clueless? She's avoiding you!"

And so he decided to try to apologize to her. However, he could not hold her in a room long enough to do so.

His phone buzzed twice. He opened the lock screen and read the message from Saphira.

"arya says 2 meet blodgharm in lobby in 5 mins"

"kk thx," he replied.

[Saphira]

She didn't know where Eragon was, nor could she fathom how he bypassed security. And judging by Arya's indirect messaging, she was still avoiding him. Whenever she inquired as to the problem, the woman digressed.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Fírnen queried.

"It's nothin'," she dismissed.

"You have that look. It means you're thinkin'."

"Arya's avoidin' Eragon," Saphira sighed.

"He's still goin' after her?" Fírnen chuckled. "Looks like he can't take a hint."

"Who can't?" Eragon asked.

"Nothing," Saphira immediately responded.

"So," interrupted Blödgharm, "now thatch you're all here, if you would kindly follow me to the elevator—"

"You mean the one we're not allowed t'use?" Saphira quipped.

"Wait, we can do things now? Where're we goin'? What's diff'rent? How—"

"Alluh yer questions'll be answered if you come," Blödgharm said, amused.

"Sorry," Eragon meekly apologized, bending his arm over his head to scratch his upper back. Saphira snorted in amusement.

[Oromis]

So the boy had finally come. He sighed guiltily.

"What is it?" Glaedr ventured.

"I regret that so much trouble has befallen the boy. He should not have been forced into all'f this."

"You know as well as I that it was inevitable," Glaedr told him.

"I know. It's just not fair to him," he lamented.

"It's not your fault," Glaedr said.

"But isn't it? If I'd just agreed to give Galbatorix what he wan'ed, all of this coulda been avoided."

"Yes," Arya agreed, reminding Oromis of her presence. "But then we'd have a mad agent on the loose. You did your job, nothing more."

He smiled. "Your kindness reminds me much of your father."

"You knew him?"

"Quite well. He was like a brother to Glaedr and me."

"What was he like?"

"Kind beyond measure. He also loved you more th'n anything. He was a real Atticus Finch, that one. In the first book, of course." He chuckled in reminiscence. "I remember when I met 'im. He was out shopping for a ring to propose t'yer mother."

The girl sniffled.

"I apologize. Do my stories trouble you?"

"N-no, not at all. Please continue."

"Well, when I saw 'im, he was freakin' out. Kept blabberin' about a buncha stuff, always concerned if some'mh wasn't perfect."

"Kinda like you were when you were younger," Glaedr jested.

"Yep. When I saw your father, I saw myself. Perhaps that's why I gave him my ring."

"You have him your wedding ring? Seriously?"

"Indeed. My wife died thirty years ago. I had no use for it."

"I'm sorry," Arya consoled.

"Don't be."

The elevator dinged, and Oromis squinted, removing his pair of wide-lenses glasses, wiped them off with his shirt and pushed him back up by the nosepiece.

"Ah, Blödhgarm. I shall fetch the contracts."

[Eragon]

He studied the abysses encircled by green irises, which, contrary to Arya's muscles, loosened. She blinked, and the tension was forced to dissipate.

Oromis approached with a thin stack of papers. Each time he slid on from the others, a whisking noise sounded amongst the crinkles and a nearly inaudible "One for you."

Eragon began to read the contract, dissecting the incredibly formal language. "Included but not limited to..." he subconsciously muttered.

"Ten years of prison?!" Saphira yelped.

"Yeah. It's a thing," Glaedr confirmed.

The pen started to Eragon's far right, initially handed to Fírnen, then to Saphira, and finally to himself.

The bottom of the page read, "I, _, agree to these terms." He signed his name along the line, wondering if his cursive was considered legible. Glaedr collected the papers.

"My name is Oromis Ebrithil, and this is my brother, Glaedr. We will be giving you special training. To avoid confusion, you will call me Master, and you'll call Glaedr by his surname."

"Yes, Master," all three droned. Eragon was surprised Saphira agreed.

"What kind of training?" he asked. "How long'll we be doin' this? Does this mean we're official agents?"

Saphira glanced with a warning glare.

Oromis, instead of being irritated, chuckled.

"Just like your father."

"Great," Glaedr grumbled. "Another bad of questions per sentence."

"You know Garrow?" Eragon asked.

"No. I was referring to Brom."

"Oh, right." Like a bucket in a well, the correction lifted the waters of guilt. He wished to tell Brok, but he couldn't. Even if he were readmitted into the force, the information of Selena's survival could not be compromised. Saphira grabbed his hand and squeezed it, before letting it drop to his side and slap his jeans. His phone buzzed again.

"You might wanna turn that off," Glaedr suggested.

"I need to check this. My brother's girlfriend is in labor."

"I am happy for them," Oromis congratulated. "But we mustn't have distractions."

"Yeah, but it's a premie. And... Nevermind." If he told anyone else about Sloan's tendencies, Roran would kill him.

"How early?" Oromis wondered.

"It's transitioning into its third trimester."

Eragon's phone buzzed again.

"Can't it wait 'ntil after this?" Glaedr groaned.

"I will let you check this once, Eragon, but then you must shut it off," Oromis acquiesced.

Still Alive from Portal started playing. "It's Roran. Thanks, Master." He tapped the green circle.

 **So what's happening with Roran? We'll hafta find out. I'm not gonna write his POV alone, 'cause his character is too shallow. I may make him OOC so he's a three-dimensional human being, though. In that case, I'll do it briefly.**

 **Like it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews below!**


	17. 16 – Family Matters

**I've got a lot goin' on, so the updates're still gonna be slower. Check out the poll on my profile.**

* * *

[Third Person Dual, Twins]

The Twins swaggered down the dusty industrial carpet, each sipping hot coffee as black as the plastic kids on the paper cups.

When the elevator creaked behind the doors, they backed up with one medium stride. Brom marched out,accompanied by the Morzanson boy and the stumbling redhead.

The Twins dropped their façade of arrogance, and they feigned angst in the presence of the "legend"—they each stifled a gag—as their peers would.

When alone, the two strode into the soft-tiled lift.

"Dammit!" the leftmost one hissed.

"If we can't go with 'em," reasoned the other, "we could check the rumors."

"On the Discrepancy and Violation Group's floor? The last big news we got there was when the fax machine broke!"

"Maybe it's been fixed?"

The Twins chortled.

[Omniscent]

Fifteen minutes after Eragon's departure had dragged by. It had been ten since the the furtive glances began exponentially, but the initially inflexible intervals of peering at the door had since evolved into the constant watching.

Saphira rose a centimeter upon blinking, reacting to the movement in disappointing mistake. The indistinct blurbs of dialogue from the phonecall beyond the walls halted. Because the drop in volume bore no transition, the tense atmosphere further stiffened. It was no pause to let the other end speak.

When distinct shouting ruptured the still air with vibrations, everyone, with the notable exclusion of Arya, started.

"RORAN! HE'S SUEING YOU?!"

"Relax," the older boy called from the hospital landline.

"RELAX?! HOW D'YA EXPECT THIS TA GO? IF YOU GO TO—"

"ERAGON!" Roran interjected through the crackling of the speakers. Then, after a suitable pause from ranting, he continued, "He can't. Romeo and Juliet laws."

"Oh. Sorry. The baby okay?"

"'S in the nicu." Roran rasped (and not just due to the sound quality).

"What about Sloan?" Eragon ventured.

"He got arrested," the older kin sighed, sending a crackle to Eragon's ear. "Docs somehow knew about Kat's home life. They're tryna work it out—said some'mh about 'special circumstances.'"

Saphira, one arm over her knee, rose to kneel, then pushed herself to a full stance. The young woman strode outside the room, inexplicably aware of the tracking stairs till she passed the frame. A cool draft flooded behind her.

"Eragon?" she called with a concerned tone.

[Third Person, Eragon]

He dropped the phone, cracking the screen. Normally he would be anxious to check, but he ignored the discarded device.

Saphira crouched, picked it up and handed it to him, whispering, "Ya dropped this."

Eragon snatched the mobile machine and jammed it in his front pocket.

"What's goin' on?" Saphira interrogated. Her concerned tone frustrated him.

"Go away," he grumbled.

"Little one, I'll ducktape ya t'the wall if I have to. Tell me what's up."

Ignoring the threat, the youth, like a child in tantrum, stomped down the cooridor towards the office. He didn't recognize Saphira's hand just below his elbow until his shoulder yanked him backwards. Eragon huffed.

"What is the matter with you?" Saphira demanded.

He mentally berated her with expletives, but not for her prying. His exasperation gurgled with every sound, be it the patter of feet of the buzzing of the lights overhead. The walls flickered within a few-foot radius about the pair, and Eragon glared at the offending fixture. Overhead, the near-strobe fluttered its eyelids in a threat to sleep.

"Well?" his partner prompted.

"You really wanna know what's goin' on? The universe decided I can't have fam'ly, that's what," the man of unmanaged temper spat.

"What are you saying?" Saphira pressed.

"Katrina's goin' inta foster care," he rasped.

"Who?"

"My brother's fiancée."

"Oh! I'm... Sorry... The baby?"

Eragon scoffed. "It's prob'ly gonna die in a coupla days. Katrina's trying to keep the kid, an' Roran's packing up and movin' to Therinsford fer work."

"I..." When Saphira paused, it irritates him. When she spoke again, the agitation peaked. "I dunno what to say," she admitted.

"Nuttin' to say," Eragon hissed as he bumped Saphira aside. He continued down the hallway towards the classroom. He hated standing there, talking. _I need to get up. I needa do somethin'._

[Arya]

If anyone were to ask her if she felt anxious, her immediate answer would have been that no, she did not. If anyone were to ask her if she had friends, she would vehemently protest. But if anyone, even herself, were to ask her if she worried about Eragon, she would deny it in dishonesty; thus, when he stormed into the room, she told herself it was of shock she stared at Eragon— _not_ concern.

Arya's scrutinizing intense, she did not process Saphira entering the room until the youth's index finger tapped her upper arm. She tilted her head, raised an eyebrow and followed the girl when beckoned.

"He's pissed," Saphira explained.

"Yeah. I noticed."

"I can't get 'im to calm down," she clarified.

"Well whaddya want me ta do about it?"

"He'll listen to you."

"What? No."

"Drop the act, Arya. Even if you don't like him, he's head over heels for you."

"Saph, no, I'm not gonna lead him on!" Arya hissed.

"You're not leading him on; you're just being a friend!"

"I don't have friends."

"Arya. Please?"

"I s'pose he'll disrupt training if I don't?"

The other converser nodded.

"I guess I can do it fer that reason."

Arya approached the fuming Eragon.

"Let me guess—Saph sentcha."

Arya frowned. "Yeah, why?"

"Then I don't wanna talk."

"Oh thank God," she sighed.

"Wait, what?"

"I didn't wanna hafta have this conversation."

"Then why are you here?"

Arya frowned again. "Honestly? I'm not sure. Justa get Saphira off my back, I guess."

Eragon chuckled. "I know the feeling. She's like my _mother_."

Arya froze. She had entirely forgotten about Izlanzadí. _What a daughter I am_ , she thought dryly.

"Oh. Look, Arya, I didn't mean to—I mean, well—sorry."

Arya found his nerve-enduced speech impediment endearing—not that she'd admit it. "It's fine."

"You sure?"

"Hey, I'm the one interrogating you, remember?" she quipped.

Eragon snorted. "Yeah, guess so."

Arya began to notice the sagging skin underneath his eyes, the way he hunched with his shoulders forward. "You sure you're alright?"

"You askin' fer Saph?"

"No. I'm asking fer—" She stopped. _Myself? That can't be right._ She rapidly shook her head in short vibrations.

"Remember Roran?"

"Oh yeah! The baby—"

"It's in a nicube."

"You mean a nicu?"

"Yeah. But that's not the point. Katrina's going inta foster care, and they may not be able to keep the baby. Roran's movin' to Therinsford to get a job. If he's in a stable enough environment, he can get custody."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Why? It's not your fault."

Once again, Arya seized in monologue. _Why am I sorry?_

Eragon hugged her. She awkwardly reach her arms around him, not touching him, and patted his back twice.

"You're a good friend," he murmured into her shoulder.

She relaxed, but then stiffened. Eragon released her. Arya turned around to see Saphira's and Fírnen's smirks.

"So are we ready to begin?" Oromis inquired.

* * *

 **On a less important note (heh, literally), I've started changing what I call the POV's to more proper terms.**

 **Like it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews below!**


	18. 17 – To Get to the Center of Arya

For those of you who haven't figured it out yet, I've been editing the chapters starting from the beginning. They are going to be updated multiple times, and eventually it will catch up. I am also really swamped right now, so I'm on hiatus for the most part.

* * *

A pad of blue and yellow stripes lay acenter* to the room. The students (Arya, Eragon, Fírnen and Saphira) stood on the side nearest to the entrance, opposite of Oromis and Glaedr.

"Alright," Oromis began. "See the stool to my left?"

Eragon swept skimmed the right side of the room. "Nope."

"He means the stepladder, little one," Saphira hissed, rousing a snort from Fírnen. Thankfully, neither Arya nor Oromis reacted.

The boy focused on said ladder. The metal frame glinted in the dimly lit room, and the steps were black. The unfolded contraption rose six steps to a large rectangular prism.

"Hey! Not your turn to talk!" Glaedr scorned, notably relieving some of Eragon's sensitive embarrassment. _I swear. That boy's got less confidence than a wounded dragon._

Oromis hawked, then said, "Are we ready now?"

Saphira jogged to the unfolded steps and upheaved herself by the legs with each step. At the apex, her knees forced her through six-inch gap and onto the box-like structure. The girl scrunched the skin of her forehead to let the air brush her eyes, as if forcing them open would diminish the exhaustion. What the hell?

Glaedr rubbed his face impatiently, but Oromis, Eragon and Fírnen regarded Saphira with concern. Among the latter three, only the teacher persisted after contracting the dragon-esque female's glare. Despite the animated exhaustion to weariness, Oromis still observed the resistance of the knees with each hinge. He also noticed, however, the air of determination about this particular student.

Eragon, mentally cursing his partner, cringed with the eerie _skreick, skreick!_ from every spring of the trampoline. Upon each bounce, his teeth squeezed the sides of his tongue, dreading when the twangs would cease into snaps. Then he remembered about Saphira's stitches.

"Wait!" he cried. They all stopped.

"Seriously, are we ever going to do this!" Glaedr shouted.

"I'm sorry, Mister Ebrithil. It's just that she's got stitches." Saphira snapped her head fully in his direction, just as her annoyed mien snapped his confidence. He gulped. When nobody responded, he elaborated. "She should probably sit this one out."

"Very well," Oromis sighed. "And if she's sitting out, we should probably kick Fírnen out as well."

"But – sir! I am fine! My arm does not hinder me in any way! I assure you: I can jump, I can run, I—"

"—can't grip, can't shoot, can't punch, can't wrestle." Glaedr continued.

"I can _do_ this!"

"Fírnen." Arya put an arm on his unslung hand. "Nobody here will think any less of you. Besides, I'm sure Saphira could use the company." Fírnen, grumbling, complied.

Saphira tailed the man out the door and slugged Eragon on the shoulder along the way.

"Ow!" Eragon rubbed the tender spot. The bruise made his muscles sore like a flu shot.

"If we have any further interceptions, state them now. None? Good?"

Oromis smiled and mouthed, ' _Sorry._ '

Eragon pulled himself over the steps by the railing. His muscles hurt, but the pain felt good. It distracted him. He sprang from the trampoline and attempted to flip, but instead he flopped. He sat on his knees and unhinged them straight. He glanced at Oromis's reassuring mien.

"Are you just gonna _stand_ there, or what?" Glaedr said. Eragon began to place wind about his vocal chords to – "And don't apologize, either!"

 _Nevermind, then._

He noticed Arya's smirk and became aware of the drip of sweat that trickled down his left side. He pressed his arm against it. He wanted to look somewhere other than Arya. Not Glaedr. He didn't have a reason to focus on Oromis. He slid his eyeballs to the maple-brown wall to his right, but Arya's movement was still at the edge of his peripherals, and thus he tracked her again. He blinked thrice.

 _C'mon, Eragon. You're being ridiculous._

His brain didn't process Arya's perfect flip and landing until she stood beside him. The left corner of her lip was tucked downwards, and her arms hugged her chest. The frown sloped further.

 _Why's she so – Oh, I'm still staring._ He felt his deodorant, now half-melted, continue to pour down his torso.

 _"Focus,"_ Garrow would have said. _"You gotta focus. You're a smart kid, Eragon, but you can't learn much from a wall."_

 _Shut up! You're dead!_ Eragon retorted. Subconsciously, Eragon recognized that it had been himself, not Garrow, but he told the recognition to shut up, too.

"Any questions?" Glaedr droned. "Good, now—"

"—Actually, sir, I ... I, uh – Could you repeat that?"

"Fuck it! Oromis, _you_ train this kid. I'll deal with the other two separately. This one—" He nodded towards Arya. "—already knows everything I have to teach, but I'm sure you can come up with something."

As Glaedr flew out the door, Oromis stepped a foot forward. "I think it's pretty clear that you're tired, Eragon, but that just means we have work to do."

 _He can't mean –_

"—No, I don't mean for you to exercise is your current state. _However_ , that is not to say that you are excused. If I let you go to a soft, warm bed, we'll just end up right back here, with Arya fit and you, lethargic."

"But what do you mean, then?" Eragon blurted. He clasped his lips together. Instead of reprimanding him, as Glaedr would have, Oromis smiled.

"Eragon, when was the last time you ate anything?"

"Lunch," Eragon replied.

"What was the last _thing_ that you ate?"

"I..." Eragon shifted his view to Arya and back. "Jell-O," he slowly admitted. He blushed.

"Ah, yes. Low blood sugar. See, you've eaten a bunch of sugar, but you haven't had anything that'll last you longer than ten minutes."

 _Wouldn't that just make me tired, not sore?_

"I take that he and Saphira haven't stretched, either?" Oromis asked Arya. She shook her head.

"They knows to stretch before they exercise, but not after."

 _After?_ Eragon had known that muscles needed to be stretched before use to reduce the risk of injury, but afterwards? "Why would I need to do that?"

"Muscles literally warm up through use. If you don't settle into inactivity, they cramp up," Oromis explained. "We're gonna do that later. For now, follow me to my desk. I've got some granola bars back there."

The desk was stuffed into the furthest corner of the room. Adjacent to it stood a large bookshelf that bulged with content. Eragon read the date of an encyclopedia set, which was surprisingly labelled, "2013." _They still make those?_

A cool, buoyant short water bottle accompanied the crinkling of foil and plastic. He grabbed the water and granola bar while murmuring a thank-you. He tore the wrapper, but only the corner separated from the rest, so he widened the hole that he had caused. Then, when he didn't see anywhere to properly dispose of the foil, he stuffed it into his pocket, half-knowing that it'd clog the washing machine later.

After finishing his snack, he handed the bottle to Oromis (who had insisted upon collecting it) and asked, "Where do we begin?"

XXX

"I think Eragon's done for the day," Arya observed. She expected him to object, but it appeared that standing had preoccupied him.

"Very well. We will meet back here at six."

Eragon groaned, but dragged himself forward. Each step seemed rigid, as if his feet were cumbersome as bricks.

"Walk it off," Arya muttered.

"I'm fine." Then the boy's left leg stuttered, and he slipped. Another groan.

"And now?"

"All good," he said.

"Mhmm." She pulled him up by his left bicep, which was surprisingly toned. She hadn't expected it to be – especially not after he'd been shot, broken a few ribs, ate like a junkie, and hadn't even known how to properly exercise before today. It, much like Eragon's footsteps, was rigid. When her thumb pressed into the muscle, he yelped.

"Saphira punched you that hard?"

"Yeah." He pulled the left side of his lip towards the side.

She wanted to rub the knot – _No! I want no such thing!_ She didn't feel this way. Eragon was just her friend. She didn't get attached to anyone, especially not _him_. He was just a friend. Even that was a risk. Anyone she developed a positive relationship had either been killed or maimed. If Eragon were to... _Why do I care? I don't have feelings for him. I don't_ feel.

"Um, Arya? Are you gonna let go now?"

 _Shit._

"Are you ... okay?"

"Don't ask that!" she snapped.

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't apologize, either!"

"Well," he said. "I'm sor – I mean, sure thing."

"Stop _doing_ that!" Arya hissed.

"What am I doing?"

"Talking! Making noise! Using that – that _tone._ Talking like you _care._ You don't get that right."

A sniffle. "If that's how you feel, then why didn't you just tell me? It would have been a lot easier then—"

"NO!" She imagined the words. _Leading me on._ "No!" She sprinted out. She felt... guilty. _No I don't,_ she insisted. _I don't feel. I'm Arya. Nothing bugs me. I don't feel. I_ can't _feel. I just did the right thing. It was my choice. It had nothing to do with emotion... Right, 'cause I can't feel anything._ She rehearsed the lies, but as all repeating phrases would, they began to lose their meaning.

* * *

Ah, yes. Now that Arya's accepting she has had problems, she will have to cope with them. Since she doesn't have any coping skills, she'll do it maladaptively. Character forecast: Hurricane Arya.

All the stuff about low blood sugar and stretching was true. Muscles generate heat, and what happens to a heated object that suddenly cools down? It contracts. If you don't transition those muscles, they'll knot up. Blood sugar isn't only a thing you have to keep up if you're diabetic. People think caffeine gives energy, but it doesn't. It's just a stimulant. It speeds up your body's functions so that it feels energized, but it's not real glucose. Why do you think caffeine stops working eventually?

*acenter (uh-SEN-ter) _preposition:_ At or towards the center. (Not a real word.)

As for the reasons behind hiatus, I have school, editing chapters, procrastination, video games to play, and more school. I could be posting more regularly, but I just don't feel inspired after five hours of schoolwork.

Like it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews below!


	19. 18 – Denial

I'm so excited! Character development, angst, Eragon the Sap, and other Soap-Opera-esque adventures!

* * *

 _What did I do?_ Eragon sorted through the possibilities. He'd just pissed off a robot – he must have done _something_. He collided with Firnen.

"Eragon! Hey, dude! Watch it!"

"What? Huh? Oh, sorry." And normally, he would be, but right now he was too disappointed about Arya. He squeezed his eyelids to suppress the tears, inhaled a long, shaky breath, and opened them.

"I take it that Arya's . . . whatever that was had something to do with you?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, I don't know, really."

"What _did_ you do? I have never seen her this upset. If Saphira didn't already do it, I'd hafta hit you."

Eragon considered asking Fìrnen for insight. He was older, and he did know Arya well... _Ah, hell._

"Fìrnen, you know Arya, right?"

"Yeah, six years of partnership'll do that to ya," he said.

"What did I do to piss her off?"

Fìrnen laughed. "I wish I knew! The fact is that ever since . . . Well, she just isn't that open, y'know?"

"More than I ever hoped to," Eragon replied.

"You two have been gettin' pretty close lately. somethin' going on I should about?" Fìrnen prodded.

"It was goin' so well! Then she just . . . exploded. Said I didn't have the right to care. Even threw our 'friendship' at my face. Heh, guess I wasn't fooling anybody but myself, was I?"

"Coulda fooled me," the green-head said.

"Really?" Eragon was now hopeful.

"Look, Eragon, I dunno what's happening between you two. I have no idea about how Arya thinks of you. She seems to fuss, though, so I guess that's some-mh."

Saphira scoffed. Eragon started, not having been aware of his best friend's presence. "Little one, you are such a _sap_!"

"Oh, hey, Saph. Listen, about earlier—"

"—Unh-unh! Don't mention it. If you think I'm frail, then fine. I guess you don't know me at all."

"Saphira!" Eragon protested. "I never said that!"

"But you _thought_ it!"

"No I didn't!"

Fìrnen clutched his chin, glanced between the two, then rested his forehead in his right palm.

"Oh, _really_?"

"Yes, really! Saphira, you are one a the toughest people I know! I had to say something, 'cause otherwise you woulda tore open your stitches and kept on going!" She still wasn't entirely persuaded.

"You're just saying that. No, listen. I get injured, and then you care, and bein' the sap you are, you go—" she swapped to a higher pitch to mimic him "—'Oh, Shaph! You poor widdowe fing! You'we a maimed guwee-guwe.' Well, I'm not! People shouldn't look at my stitches and think I'm vulnerable!"

"Saph," Eragon sighed. Then he continued. "Nobody will think any less of you for a wound. If anything, you'll look fiercer for it."

"Well . . . Okay, maybe."

"You two made up yet? It's late, and I wanna go home," Fìrnen interrupted.

"Yeah, let's go."

XXX

The next few weeks demanded effort from Eragon. He had never trained so vigorously before. Oromis's advice had helped, sure, but he was still sore.

 _"A good workout will leave you sore. Sore is what you want, but not pain,"_ the elder had advised.

 _"Your endurance is always just a bit over what you think it is,"_ Arya had told him. She had – distanced herself in any circumstance but training, but even in training, the tension wasn't just in their muscles.

Eragon, over time, did improve. His lung capacity rose. His bulk toned. He could run faster, concentrate longer, and fight more effectively. He still pestered Oromis with questions, though.

Instead of returning to the hotel, Eragon remained in the training quarters. He could bundle up behind the rise for the trampoline and be shielded from air circulation. Oromis's miniature library stimulated his insatiable curiosity. He learned more about the human anatomy – how to stitch a wound, how much pressure to apply, that people didn't die instantly when wounded in the heart. He opened up the math textbooks (why Oromis had them, he didn't know) and scribbled down functions. He read classical works such as To Kill a Mockingbird, Of Mice and Men, and The Great Gatsby. Eragon, despite his misfortunes, was content.

But then they commenced the firearms unit. Oromis attempted to hand him a pistol, but his trembling hands flung it to the ground. Although it was unloaded and locked in safety, Eragon had been lectured on proper handling. He aimed the barrel at the target, shut his left eye, and pulled the trigger while seeing the images of the deceased. His always missed the target, but he had been aiming for the illusions of the dead.

"Keep both eyes open," Oromis reminded him.

He tried. He couldn't actually tell if his lids were shut or not. The images looked the same either way. Headshot, headshot, headshot. Garrow, Urgals, Misses Hess, Izlanzadí... Arya. He didn't even know why Arya was in the mix, but he didn't question anything when he shot her, too. The gun lowered. The images warped into Saphira's hand on his wrist. He couldn't breath. Coherent though ceased. _They . . . all dead. Gone... I . . . k-killed . . . them._ He dropped the firearm, and a stray bullet ricocheted off of the barrier and entered the wall through the space between his shins.

"Glaedr says that you've got some stuff to do," Saphira told Oromis on the fringe of Eragon's awareness. He couldn't process the words. His head wasn't caught in a paper jam, but rather it was filled with slush and water.

"Ssh. I'm here, little one."

"I . . . killed," Eragon choked.

"You did what you had to do."

 _H-had . . . to?_ That couldn't be right. He had to keep them _alive_ , not _kill them_. "B-bu . . . B-b," he stammered.

"Let's just get you home."

XXX

Arya rapped on the boy's door.

"Come in," Saphira called.

"Just checking in. How's the new guy?"

" _Eragon_ is recovering. We're gonna hafta put him in therapy, I think." Saphira hugged him closely towards her. Her left arm (her right one was currently being crushed underneath his torso) stroked his greasy dark-brown hair. His face sagged into a white pillow, and beige comforters encompassed everything below his shoulders. She didn't like seeing him this way – suffering

 _No, I don't care._ "Know anybody?" Arya asked.

"Nope. You?"

"Eh, kind of," she replied, holding her hand flat and horizontal, tilting it towards either side.

"Care to elaborate?"

"Well, she's a bit eccentric..."

XXX

Angela had wondered when they'd call her in. That boy had seen too much not to need help. And as she had predicted, Elva had insisted on accompanying her. But now was the time to introduce herself to the patient. Naturally, Elva served as the best bridge.

"So how well do you two know each other?" The answer, of course, was something she knew, but it wasn't what she sought. Rather, she needed Eragon to tell her.

"Pretty well. Elva's kinda like a little sister to me."

"Hm, really? I would have pictured her as the older sister that keeps ya outta trouble," Angela quipped.

"Yes, well, I'm a bit of that too. It's a mutual relationship." Elva had her trademark smile of youthful innocence. Angela stared into those eyes, however. Only her reflected face greeted her. There was no emotion – just herself.

"So, Eragon, why don't you tell me what your problem is?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"I'd be surprised if you did."

"So then you realize it's not your right to know?"

Angela smirked. She had a response. It would unsettle the patient, make him uncomfortable in her presence. To most, it would seem counterproductive, but most people didn't have Elva to play the role of comfort.

"I know. You see their faces. Arya, probably. Surprised? I know many things, Eragon – yes, I know your name – that you wouldn't want me to. You see those you lost, and you see those you've killed. Of course, to you there's no difference, is there?"

Eragon frowned. If a bond had been established, he perhaps would have been comforted. Instead of struggling to phrase the horror, he would be able to nod and feel heard. But there was no bond, and so he felt invaded.

"See, Eragon, you probably won't like me. I don't have _time_ for you to like me. But I can help you."

The boy scrunched his forehead.

"No? Perhaps I'll just leave you with Elva, then."

He shrugged. _Ah, yes. The illusion of nonchalance._ The boy was acting like he didn't care. He was trying to be strong. Elva would be able to break that. There were other things – other people – that Angela wanted to explore.

When the woman left, Eragon whipped his view to match Elva's.

"So, I think we're going to have to go with exposure therapy," the girl decided.

"But – isn't exposure the problem?"

"Do you wanna be a cop or not?" Saphira spat.

"Cop," he grumbled.

"Then suck it up."

 _What a friend_ , mused Elva. "Obviously, you can't hold a gun right now."

"Yeah. It just feels so – so _real._ "

"How about a first-person shooter?"

"You mean to tell me," Eragon said, "that the way I'm gonna heal is by playing _video games?_ "

"Yeah. It would make it seem less real. It'd probably still put you in a discomfort zone, but hopefully it doesn't make you shut down."

"How's this gonna help?" Saphira questioned.

"We're gonna desensitize him," Elva explained, then added, "But if you don't feel up to it, Eragon, then that's okay, too."

"Nah, I'll be fine." He shrugged. It amused her, seeing a whiny boy put on his "tough guy" clothes. It was akin to seeing a Teletubby in a black leather jacket, sunglasses, and ripped jeans on a Harley Davidson.

Outside, however, Arya struggled a lot more to feign confidence (though ironically, she had more success). She sorted through a pile of mail between the Bureau and the Carvahall Police. Most were reports that had lagged due to not having a proper addressee. With both leaders dead, she had to go through and manually write "to Brom" or "to Oromis" to direct the mail to those filling in temporary positions. Then she had found a letter designating Nasuada as the official Carvahall Chief, so she had had to redo half of her progress.

But she also had to maintain a broken façade in front of Angela. Angela, however, was, well, Angela.

"So, how've you been holdin' up?"

"I am not sure what you mean," Arya lied.

"Well, your mom's dead. You haven't dealt with whatever happened to make you so closed off. And you're fraternizing with Eragon after Faölin—"

"—There is _nothing_ going on between me and Eragon," Arya hissed.

"So not well?"

"I'm perfectly fine," Arya insisted. _After all, I don't feel a thing. I'm Arya – I don't have problems._

"Arya, you haven't coped. It's perfectly natural for you to seek someone out when—"

"—I am _not_ seeking anyone out!"

"Look, all I'm saying is that you may need time to grieve," Angela said.

"I'm handling it."

"And I'm a monkey's uncle," Angela droned.

"That's an obscure Lion King reference, and you know it!" Arya shouted.

"And you're not an alexithymiac, and _you_ know it!"

"I know! I'm fine! I'm perfectly over it!"

"I bet you still haven't even answered that text," Angela retorted.

The pen which Arya held clattered to the floor. _"The reason,"_ she wanted to say, _"that I haven't is because there's no point. I just..."_ She had a valid excuse there somewhere, and the words strung along in her mind at the top of a curtain, but she had no mental leverage to get them down.

"C'mon, Arya." She slapped both hands on the desk. "If you're as crazy about this guy as I think you are, then at least explain what's up."

"He's just a boy."

"Your mother used to say that about Faölin."

"Faölin's dead!"

Instead of retorting, as Arya imagined she would do, Angela smirked, leaned off of the tabletop, walked backwards two steps, turned, and strode out the room.

 _Fa_ _ölin's dead._

* * *

So, I don't actually know how accurate Eragon's firearm-phobia/PTSD is. I have PTSD, but that manifests in ways besides flashbacks. I have social phobia, but I don't know that the panic attacks would manifest in the same way. But it's all I have, so it's largely what this is based on. Eragon at sixteen had a similar personality as me at ten, so I'm just inferring.


	20. 20 – Anger

How's the flow on this one?

* * *

 _Fäolin's dead._ So why was Arya so attached? _Fäolin's dead._ Fäolin wouldn't want her to be upset. Right? Then again, here she was, replacing him. _Do I even love him?_ She knew she did. _Screw Fäolin! Making me fall in love..._ But then, hadn't she chosen to let herself do so? _Screw you!_ Arya snapped to herself. _He was too young._

 _Your mother used to say that._ Well, she was dead now, too. Whoever said that the dead lived inside of the living, Arya supposed that they were right. _Because now I am her._ It made her angry. What right did her mother have to influence her? She'd said those things before he had died – before she had died. Before Arya had forgiven her again. She had known, too. She had known that she'd been forgiving a relapse in her mother's behavior. Even when she was dead, that woman was still so...

"Ergh!"

 _Just like her._ _I didn't even_ like _her. How could she do this to me? As if disowning me wasn't enough – now she's_ influencing _me?_

Why had Arya let her? _Figures,_ she told herself. _Arya: always too vain to think she could ever be_ influenced _._

 _Fäolin's dead._

 _I'm just like her._

And then there was Eragon. Sweet, dear, naïve Eragon. _That's how I used to think of Fäolin. Oh, dear God, it's happening again._

 _It's happening again._

 _Fäolin's dead._

 _I'm just like her._

 _Why'd I let this happen? Why did_ they _let_ me _let this happen? And to think that I'd become who I swore I'd never be. I don't want to be myself. I don't want to be_ her _._

The world had wronged her. Izlanzadí had made her act like the world was a conglomerate of peasants. Eragon had let her lead him on. Fäolin had let her love him, and then he had gone and died.

Arya frowned. Again, it sounded like something her mother would say. She shot out of the chair, marched towards the exit, grabbed the doorknob, stepped out, and threw the door into its frame. It rebounded. She placed her palm flat against its surface and forced it to stay where it belonged – shut. But the hinges had bent, and the door resisted. She huffed. She imagined herself riding riding the cool steel frame of her motorcycle, the wind displacing her hair behind her back. But then she thought of how Eragon was a rider as well. She rotated one-eighty degrees to face the narrow, dimly-lit corridor.

 _Eragon._ This was _his_ fault. If it weren't for him, Arya's mother wouldn't be dead. Fäolin wouldn't be dead. She wouldn't have become her mother. She wouldn't have experienced any emotions. _Yes, it's all_ his _fault._ On a deeper, subconscious layer of the mind, she knew whose fault it really was. She didn't acknowledge the realization, but it still furthered the rage. Arya _needed_ to be right. She had suffered so much that she could _not_ be responsible for her predicament. _They_ were wrong, not _her._ She was the _wronged_ one, not the _wrong_ one . . . Right?

 _It's happening again._

 _Fäolin's dead._

 _I'm just like her._

 _They let this happen._

 _It's all Eragon's fault._

 _Mother would say something like that._ There those words were again. _Something she would say._

"AGH!" She punched the door to her left. Flecks of paint sprinkled her knuckles. She swept and blew them off, but she saw what could possibly be a speck of the rubbery white peels, so she shook her hand, and it yanked on her wrist. _So angry..._

 _It's happening again._

 _Shut up._

 _Fäolin's dead._

 _I said, 'Shut up.'_

 _I'm just like her._

"Nope. Shut up."

 _They let this—_

"Shut up!"

Arya pushed against the door to support her weight. It opened inwards. She teetered momentarily, then fell . . . right into Eragon.

 _It's all Eragon's fault._

"Arya? Are you—"

"Haven't you done enough already!" She shoved him. He landed out flat, but he didn't move. Instead, he sighed and furled his fingers inwards.

 _Why'd I just do that?_. . . _Oh yeah, 'all his fault.'_ She frowned.

 _Am I wrong? No. I have to have been wronged. It's the only way it works. I_ need _to be wronged._ Then why did Eragon have to be so nice? He didn't deserve this. _Yes, he does! I am not wrong._

"I'm not wrong," she whispered.

"Arya, do you need, like, help?"

She laughed. "Says the guy who can't hold a _gun_."

The door shut.

 _The door shut? He shut the door on me! Can't he see that I_ need _him!_

Arya grumbled and scratched the bridge of her nose. _I don't need him. I'm_ Arya _. I don't need_ any _one . . ._

 _Just like her._

Arya returned to her room, slumped into the corner, and sulked.

* * *

Remember that vanity? It's how I'm shattering the vanity. Anyways, I wrote this a bit like poetry, so I'm really curious about how you thought of it.

Like it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews below!


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